


A Bloodbath in Whitechapel

by Despina



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:23:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Despina/pseuds/Despina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone – or something – is killing people in Victorian London's notorious East End.  Sampson Lumiere is the bitter and jaded police inspector assigned to find the murderer.  A Saiyuki AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sampson Lumiere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kirathaune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirathaune/gifts).



> Written for 2011 7th Night Smut community in Dreamwidth.
> 
> My deepest appreciation to all who've helped me with the making of this fic JediShampoo, Rroselavy, and of course, Whymzycal. Also, I must acknowledge (and apologize to) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, August Derleth, Robert Louis Stevenson, Rudyard Kipling, H. G. Wells, and of course, Minekura Kazuya.
> 
> Warnings: M/M sex, a splash of dubcon, some gore, and violence.

Chapter 1  
 _Sampson Lumiere_

 

"Bloody hell!" Sampson sputtered as he sat up, shaking the water from his face and hair. Sitting upright so quickly caused a pounding pressure in his head; his vision hovered on blackness and his stomach roiled in response. He tried to clear his thoughts but all he could think about was the icy water dripping down his back.

He heard footsteps – sounding like thunder – echo through his mostly empty room. As he pressed his fingers to his temple, he heard the deafening clanking of glass on glass.

"Ah, I see. This explains your current state," an all-too familiar voice said. "As usual, you've been employing your well-educated time most significantly with laudanum and absinthe. How predictably dull you've become, my lad."

"What do you want, Godfrey?" Sampson looked up just in time to catch the towel Godfrey threw to him. The motion made his stomach and head complain.

Godfrey sat down in the only chair in the room. He leaned back and opened the newspaper he had brought with him. Very quietly he said, "Why else do I come to visit my poor, unfortunate relation who wants nothing to do with his rich and benevolent protector?"

A chill seemed to descend on the room and Sampson paused his vigorous towel-rubbing. "There's been another?"

"Yes."

Sampson frowned and looked around for his trousers. "Where?"

"The East End, of course." Godfrey tossed the paper at Sampson. It landed on the floor. "Read it yourself. 'Spring-heeled Jack Strikes Again!' And just yesterday they were declaring the deaths were due to an escaped tiger."

Sampson made a disagreeable noise and threw off his blankets. Ignoring the paper, he slid into his trousers. "Spring-heeled Jack! You believe that cock-and-bull story as much as I do."

"Hmm, I suppose. And yet you don't seem surprised that another killing has occurred."

"I might say the same about you." Sampson glanced over at Godfrey, who was watching him intently. Ignoring Godfrey's obvious attempt to bait him, he turned his back and tugged a shirt over his head.

"You really should wear a night shirt, my lad. And perhaps some drawers. Very indecent, you know."

"Sod off." Hearing the rain outside, Sampson put on his overcoat and carefully placed his tin of cigarettes and his pistol in the appropriate pockets. He waved his hand towards the door and considered where he was headed. "I expect that insufferable Brennan will already be there."

Godfrey smiled and stood up. "Possibly. And let's not forget about his partner, Verinder. Now, he's the real brains behind those two. But together, they do enjoy besting you."

Sampson glared at him. "They have yet to do that."

"Ah, yes, forgive me. I had forgot that denial is a very particular pleasure of yours." Godfrey clapped Sampson on his back. "All of London is fortunate that solving crimes is not included in that denial."

Sampson's irritation rose, but he held his tongue. Today he would simply wait for Godfrey to tire of his teasing.

Godfrey sighed in seeming resignation. "Very well, my carriage is outside. After you, Mr. Lumiere."

 

Although dawn was an hour gone, the sky remained the color of charcoal dust as they neared the milling crowd. Sampson wasn't put off by the morbid interest; murders were something the locals needed to be aware of. But as he pushed his way through the throng and down the alleyway, he heard a few ignorant mutterings of "another Spring-heeled Jack killing." He did his best to focus on what was before him.

The recent rain had helped reduce the urine stench along the narrow passageway, but Sampson was careful where he stepped. More than one pair of boots had been ruined in similar alleyways and this year's boot allowance had already been spent.

The low light in the alley dimmed further as the gathering clouds thickened overhead. The light had become practically non-existent. "You," he said as he pointed to the nearest constable, "get a lantern."

They had anticipated his request and very quickly, two lanterns bathed the area in yellow-orange light.

An elderly man lay on his back, his vacant, white-filmed eyes staring up at the gray sky. His face was frozen in a grimace of terror and his head was twisted to the side at an unnatural angle. There was a savage rip in his throat, deep and wide enough to expose his neck bones. Beneath him was a large pool of blood, thinned by the rain, but still trying its best to coagulate into something resembling a pudding. Sampson's stomach did a slow rotation as the scent of poorly slaughtered meat assaulted him. Behind him, he could hear one of the constables losing whatever breakfast he may have consumed.

Sampson knelt by the man. He noticed the ragged edges of the wound and the irregular tears in the skin. "This wasn't done with a knife," he announced, not caring who heard him.

"Yes, I'd come to the same conclusion," a softly spoken voice said behind him.

"You're late to this party, Lumiere," another, louder voice added.

It was Verinder and Brennan, just as he had feared. Sampson ignored them and reached for the old man's arm; something about it wasn't quite right. He hesitated, not sure if he was prepared to come into physical contact with the victim in his current vulnerable state.

"Godfrey. A pencil, if you don't mind." Sampson reached blindly behind him and waited with an open hand.

"I thought you two were investigating grave robberies," Godfrey said with a teasing tone in his voice as a pencil slipped into Sampson's waiting fingers. "Are the dead not keeping you suitably entertained?"

"On the contrary, I'm sorry to say," Verinder answered.

"In fact, the latest body-snatching happened just after we heard the whistles for this murder. We were here when the latest grave was defiled," Brennan said. "Quite coincidence, don't you think, Mr. Godfrey? Three murders, three grave robberies."

"Perhaps," Godfrey said. "But grave robbing isn't anything new. Why would you think they are connected?"

"Just a hunch," Brennan explained.

The voices behind Sampson faded away as he rearranged the dead man's arm with Godfrey's pencil. He pushed aside the torn fabric on the sleeve and leaned close, careful to keep his knees from coming in contact with the bloody ground and careful to not touch the man.

There were bite marks on the arm but they weren't human. Dogs? Stories about packs of vicious, feral dogs were not unheard of, but no, he was certain the bites were not from dogs. The other arm bore another bite and as he pushed the tatters of the man's shirt aside, he saw scratches. Deep and sharp, the gashes were most certainly not made by a dog.

He had to know what had happened and there was only one way to do that. Setting the pencil on the ground, he touched the dead man's cold hand. When the pain hit, he closed his eyes, not wishing to see past and present stacked atop one another. He hoped he had remained silent, but Godfrey at his side left him little assurance of that.

"Lumiere?" Godfrey's voice was quiet. "What do you see, lad?"

"I think …" Sampson touched his forehead, attempting to ease the searing pain but knowing the gesture was futile. A spot between his eyes burned hot as he stepped into someone else's last waking moments.

Chaotic images tumbled through his mind. He saw a stooped old man attempting to hurry his steps, his heart beating at an alarming rate. Behind him, or maybe above, there was a savage growl. Something was moving, too fast; it was small but quick, jumping away and back like a rabbit. Blurry scenes melded together, becoming more like smears of paint on canvas drawn by pure, soul-shaking fear.

The visions froze in place to reveal one crystal clear image. A creature paused in a crouch; long, pointed ears jutted out from a mass of hair, and the thing's eyes glowed gold like a cat's. And when it snarled, sharp teeth of an unnatural length were visible. It lunged – growling as razor-sharp claws reached forward ...

Sampson returned to himself. He stood, backing away from the corpse but staggering under the weight of what he had just experienced. He kept his face turned away, not meeting anyone's gaze, and leaned against the closest brick wall.

"Are you ill?" Brennan stepped close and touched Sampson's arm. "You're very pale."

Sampson shook off Brennan's arm and smoothed out his jacket. "I'm well."

Verinder watched Sampson closely. He cleared his throat and asked, "Were you able to find any additional clues with your ... study of the body?"

"How could he find anything different from what we did?" Brennan looked at his partner. "It's just a body."

"Mr. Lumiere's review of the dead is much talked about," Verinder said slowly.

Sampson fumbled through his pockets and retrieved his cigarette tin, trying to will his shaking fingers into behaving properly. As he dragged a lucifer across a brick wall, sparks exploded from the match, causing Verinder's penetrating green eyes to glitter in the lantern light. The sight was eerily similar to the vision he'd just experienced.

Brennan's voice dropped low. "Verinder, I'm not –"

Verinder seemed to pick his next words very carefully. "He sees details that some of us only _dream_ about."

Brennan's mouth snapped shut and he looked questioningly at Lumiere.

Godfrey stepped in. "That's enough now, boys. I think you'd best return to the graveyard, see if you can find clues to help make a connection between the murders and grave robbing, I still have doubts. Constables, you can take the unfortunate to the mortuary now and clear off."

Sampson puffed on his cigarette as he turned and walked toward the carriage. The coach driver opened the door and Sampson gratefully collapsed into the seat and away from prying eyes.

"Well?" Godfrey asked as he took the seat opposite Sampson. "What did you see?"

Sampson shook his head. "It's not easily explained."

"It never is." Godfrey tapped on the ceiling and the carriage began to move. "Did you see Spring-heeled Jack? Pointed ears, clawed hands, and eyes of fire? Did it have extraordinary jumping abilities? That's what you saw, isn't it?"

"There were no eyes of fire." Sampson sucked on his cigarette. "And I don't believe in demons, Godfrey."

Godfrey chuckled. "Of all people I'm acquainted with, Sampson, you should be the one to believe in demons."

"There's got to be another answer." Sampson leaned against the carriage wall and tried to believe what he said.

"Perhaps. But you are not the only one to have seen him of late."

Sampson opened the door and tossed out the remainder of his cigarette. "I didn't see him."

"Didn't you?" Godfrey gave Sampson a self-satisfied smile. "Well then, my lad, what did you see?"

Sampson's head was pounding. "Have the coach driver stop at the chemist's."

Godfrey made a disproving sound but he did not argue.


	2. Gus Montaine Makes a Delivery

Chapter 2  
 _Gus Montaine Makes a Delivery_

 

The sun was setting and Sampson was in his chair next to a dying fire. He was staring at the empty glass of whiskey in his hands when there was a soft knock on his door.

"Come in!" he called out hoarsely.

"Good evening, Mr. Lumiere. I hope I haven't disturbed you." Gus said as he came into the room with a box.

"You haven't." Sampson rubbed his aching head.

"Mr. Ford just finished making the laudanum. I brought you a couple of bottles as promised." Gus set the box on the table. "I brought you the other things you asked me to get: tea, tobacco, matches, sugar, and absinthe."

Sampson nodded. "Good."

"I also brought you some food."

"But I didn't –"

"Don't worry, I didn't bring much. But you are very pale – Mr. Ford noticed, too – and I know you don't eat much." Gus set aside a jar of soup and stoked up the fire.

Sampson started to protest but stopped when his stomach rumbled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.

Gus cleared the table and lit a couple of lanterns. "Really, Mr. Lumiere, you spend too much time alone. You should have someone to take care of you – perhaps you could hire someone to cook and clean for you."

"I don't believe my well-being is any concern of yours." Sampson reached for his cigarette case, trying to distract himself from the mouth-watering scent of the warming stew.

"Yes, sir."

"Did you bring enough of that for two?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"The stew." Sampson tried to temper the harshness in his voice. "Did you bring enough for you to dine with me?"

"Oh. Yes, sir, but I –"

"Will your family miss you for dinner?"

Darkness seemed to touch Gus's normally cheerful features as he said, "No sir. Mr. Ford is my uncle, my only family now. His son, Mr. Nathaniel Ford, is experiencing some trouble and my absence would not be noticed at this time, sir."

"I hope it's nothing serious." Sampson lit a cigarette. There was definitely something amiss in Gus's life and for some unfathomable reason, Sampson wanted to know more about it. But it did seem very much like prying.

"I'm afraid it is, sir. He's fallen in with a bad crowd – very bad – and Mr. Ford is not happy. He's forbidden Nathaniel to see his friends and that has not resulted in good tidings between them. Several times of late, Mr. Ford has had to spend much of his time away from the shop because of it."

"I see." The explanation Gus offered stirred up more questions for Sampson than it answered. Why would Mr. Ford need to be absent? What kind of crowd could be wild enough to make a man forbid his son to see them? And if they were that bad, why not simply disown the son and get on with life? He wondered if Nathaniel's problems would taint Mr. Ford's reputation – that could be a problem.

"Oh, forgive me. I didn't mean to trouble you with our worries, sir."

Sampson exhaled and closed his eyes. "It's no trouble to me and stop with the "sir" nonsense. My name is Lumiere. We've known one another for many years, now."

"I'll try, sir – I'll try."

Sampson furrowed his brow. For some odd reason, Gus was blushing.

"Did you bring bread?"

"Yes, si – Mr. Lumiere." He showed Sampson a fine loaf of bread. "I'm good friends with a baker so it wasn't too dear."

"I would expect that as a chemist you have many good friends." Sampson moved to the small table.

"I'm not a chemist." Gus ladled some of the stew from the pot into two bowls. "I work at the chemist shop only because my uncle is kind."

"Don't speak like an imbecile – you are a chemist." Sampson eyed the stew warily. It looked good. The beer placed in front of him looked even better.

Gus sat on a rickety chair and tore off a chunk of bread and handed it to Sampson. "Please, eat."

Their conversation slowed as they dined and Sampson found his stew rich and tasty. He ate slowly and he was surprised to find that his headache had eased. Before he knew it, his bowl was empty.

"I knew you were hungry." Gus picked up the bowls. "I'll wash these. You should sleep, now."

Sampson grabbed another piece of bread and took a bite. "After I smoke."

"If you like," Gus said with a gentle smile.

For some reason, Sampson felt odd – almost queasy – and his stomach twisted. He thought that he might have eaten too much and set down the rest of his bread.

Instead, he fetched his tobacco and papers. He had pre-rolled cigarettes, of course, but rolling his own was something he enjoyed doing. The sound of Gus washing dishes mixed with the comfort of his tobacco was soothing, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt relaxed. He assumed it was because he was warm and fed. He rarely bothered with fire and food in the evening.

"Mr. Lumiere?"

Sampson opened his eyes, startled and a little embarrassed that he'd fallen asleep. "Yes?"

"I'd best be on my way now."

After clearing his throat, Sampson said, "Well, thank you."

"You're welcome, sir. I found the evening to be most enjoyable, the most enjoyable I've had in a long while." This time Gus's smile was melancholy.

Sampson experienced that queasy sensation again deep in his stomach.

Gus put on his coat and paused at the door. "Mr. Lumiere, do you think I might be allowed to come back? Maybe bring you dinner again? Or perhaps there are other errands I could take care of for you."

Sampson was surprised by the relief he felt. "Yes, Gus. I believe I wouldn't be opposed to that. Tomorrow, then?"

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!" Gus darted out the door and down the stairs.

"Don't call me sir!" Sampson shouted after the disappearing Gus.

His room almost immediately reflected the loss of Gus's cheer. But he was happy to see so much clutter had been set to right. And after he washed up, he lay down for what he expected to be a lengthy sleep.

Without laudanum and absinthe.


	3. A Conversation at the White Eagle Beer House

Chapter 3  
 _A Conversation at the White Eagle Beer House_

 

Sampson had a couple of days with which to puzzle over his case. Dr. Crawford performed the post-mortem on the old man and Sampson had fumed over that. Crawford was an imbecile whose opinions were hidebound and inflexible. He had taken one look at the old man and declared that dogs were responsible for his death. Then, before Sampson could get another opinion, Dr. Crawford had sent the body on for burial.

This was the third of the "Spring-heeled Jack" killings and there was already some gentle pressure on the London Metropolitan Police to get the crimes solved and bring the murderer to justice. So far, Godfrey had handled the politics; he was good at that sort of thing and even enjoyed it. But Sampson knew that the pressure would only increase if the murders continued.

He pondered over what he knew so far. All of the victims had been savagely murdered with claws and teeth, but there didn't seem to be any connection between the three.

Three days after the old man's murder, Sampson took a trip into Whitechapel to revisit the crime scenes and meet with his street contacts. He did not expect to discover anything new – for some strange, inexplicable reason, no one ever saw or heard anything in connection with the murders. Sampson found the lack of witnesses frustrating, but he was determined to continue trying.

He left late in the afternoon and took a cab. His journey home might be trickier; cabs were notoriously sparse in the East End after nightfall and it was nearly impossible to get one to wait. This night was no different and the cab-driver was very clear that he was not happy about going into Whitechapel at dusk. Sampson did not try to talk the man into waiting for him. A spooked cabbie might drive off, no matter how much money he had taken for a retainer.

But that would not be a problem. If he had to, he could find a room for the night. It wouldn't be the first time – or the last – he would spend a night in a flea-ridden flophouse. Besides, there were a few decent public houses that he was very welcome at. A night of drinking in order to obtain information sounded good to him.

He stopped at the White Eagle first. The White Eagle Beer House tended to get very wild as the liquor flowed into the night. It was a place where the folks with jobs or the well-established pick-pockets could drink their money or their loneliness away. But it was a little too early when Sampson arrived and the house was still relatively empty.

"Mr. Lumiere! How are you, sir?" Tom, the pub landlord, said in greeting.

"I'm well, Tom," Sampson answered as he stepped up to the bar.

"What can I get for you, sir?

"Beer, please." Sampson set a generous amount of money on the bar and lit a cigarette. "And perhaps some information."

"If I know it and I'll not be chatting about a paying customer." Tom set the beer in front of Sampson and leaned onto the bar, his beefy arms spread wide.

"I don't think you'd want to stop the capture of this one." Sampson took a drink of his beer, wishing it was something stronger but knowing he had to keep his head about him.

"You looking for the Spring-heeled Jack killer, are you?"

Sampson did his best not to scowl as he said, "Yes."

"Well, I don't expect to see no demon come strolling in here." Tom leaned closer and lowered his voice when he added, "Sometimes the customers that pay are close enough, if you take my meaning, but I don't think they're murdering people."

"You believe it's a demon?"

"What I think makes no difference." Tom stared at him. "It's what the whole of the 'Chapel thinks."

"Then you've heard some news?" Sampson trusted Tom's ears. Managing one of the busiest public houses in the area, Tom heard things.

"Not me directly, but word is Zoltán has."

"Zoltán? Do you mean that charlatan magician?"

"Aye. He's a bit of a pick-pocket as well, but he does keep the paying customers entertained with his silly magic tricks." Tom nodded to a couple newcomers as they came through the door. He turned and started to pour a couple of glasses. "I hear he's been saying he saw one of the killings."

"And what's your opinion?"

"Well, he's a thief and swindler and he does like to embellish facts, but his story about the killing – well, that hasn't changed." Tom set the drinks on a tray.

Sampson inhaled deeply on his cigarette. Zoltán. Sampson had gone out of his way to avoid the silly imbecile whenever possible. He was full of flourishes and inane babble, similar to a character from a puppet play. But if Zoltán had actually witnessed one of the killings then he had no choice. He exhaled. "Does he come in nightly?"

"Of late, aye. But now that I ponder on it – he's usually made his appearance by now."

"Do you know where I might find him?" Sampson could hear the annoyance in his voice. It was just like Zoltán to disappear when Sampson actually wanted to talk to the fool.

"I don't know him that well – I've tried not to – but you know how he is." Tom shrugged. "He lives in some flophouse down on Buck's Row, near the station. Don't know exactly where, but if you ask around, you should be able to find him."

One of the serving girls picked up the two beers and set them on a tray. She asked, "Who ya looking for?"

"Molly, Mr. Lumiere here would like to speak with Zoltán, but I was just saying that he's usually in by this time."

"Zoltán?" She looked at Sampson with open disbelief and then laughed. "He's not down on Buck's Row anymore. You won't be seein' that pest anytime soon, I can tell you that."

"Why not?" Sampson asked.

She looked at Tom.

"Go on, girl, tell him what you know," Tom muttered. He turned away and waved at another server, an older, dark haired woman and pointed at a tray of drinks. "Molly! Take these to Hank and Drew." All of the women who worked at The White Eagle were named Molly – at least that was Sampson's observation.

Sampson took a drink from his glass and stared at the first Molly, waiting for her to speak. This Molly had a mass of curly red hair and bright, blue eyes. She seemed uncomfortable but he had little patience. "Well? What can you tell me about Zoltán?"

"I saw him at the market earlier today." She looked around. "He said someone was following him and he wouldn't be in for a spell."

"Do you know where he's staying?"

She wrung her hands. "He asked me not to say anythin' to anyone – he said he was worried for his life. He said if I told, I might be in trouble, too."

"From him?"

"As if he could!" Molly giggled before her features turned gloomy again. "He said the ones that were after him might come after me, too."

"I'm not one of them." Sampson handed her a couple of coins and waited.

She slipped the money into her bodice. "Right now he's at Mrs. Gwynne's. It's a boarding house just down at Flower and Dean Street. He's stayin' in a single room at the back. I don't know how he'll be able to stay there if he's not makin' any money. Mrs. Gwynne is a right cranky bitch if she don't get her money on time."

Sampson drained his glass and stood up. "I appreciate the information."

Grabbing his arm she said, "Do you think it's true? Do you think he's in trouble?"

"I don't know." Sampson pried her fingers off his arm. "But I intend to find out."


	4. Zoltán the Magnificent

Chapter 4  
 _Zoltán the Magnificent_

 

When Sampson stepped outside The White Eagle, he was annoyed to find it was raining. Turning up the collar on his coat, he followed the directions Molly had given him. He passed people lining the streets; homeless beggars, thieves, thugs, and prostitutes were out for the night. Sampson passed a couple of working girls who gave him very lurid details on what they were capable of providing, but he waved them off. He didn't fault the girls or the beggars – or even the thieves for that matter – they were simply trying to survive. London could be very unforgiving.

Just like his case. Up until now, there hadn't been any leads. And with some alarm, he realized if he was considering Zoltán as a viable new lead, he was certainly desperate to find something.

He turned down Flower Street and looked for the house, it was easier to find than he'd hoped. He ducked down the alleyway as Molly instructed and to a back entrance – where Zoltán was supposed to be hiding out. Without knocking, he opened the door and stepped inside. The dark room turned out to be a scullery; it had a low ceiling and off to one side was a large, deep wash basin. Low light angled across the room from another doorway. He walked through the silent room, not bothering to be quiet or announce himself.

The room Zoltán was living in was barely big enough for a pallet bed and a small table with two chairs. Even so, compared to other places in Whitechapel, it was more comfortable than most. The problem was, there was no Zoltán occupying it.

From out of the corner of his eye, he saw quick movement – someone had materialized from a slight recess in the wall. Sampson cursed himself for not seeing his opponent earlier as he twisted to one side, avoiding a hit from a wooden staff.

As the staff swung at him again, he closed the distance between them and stopped the spinning weapon. "Stop that, you blasted fool!" he shouted as he stepped back and ripped the staff from Zoltán's hands.

"Don't kill Zoltán!" Zoltán's voice quavered, his hands raised over his head, and his eyes squeezed shut.

Sampson was convinced Zoltán had very likely lost his mind. But then again, Sampson wasn't certain Zoltán had ever been sane. He tossed the staff at Zoltán's feet. "Look at me! I'm Inspector Lumiere, you blasted imbecile! If you try to hit me again, I assure you, it will not go in your favor."

"Lumiere?" Zoltán opened his eyes and looked up. "Why, indeed it is Mr. Lumiere!"

Sampson studied the wall. "How did you hide in such a small enclosure?"

"Need you ask? Zoltán the Magnificent is like the mist! Why, once he astounded an entire –"

"Enough! Forget that I asked." Sampson could feel the beginnings of a headache. "I have some questions for you."

"Mr. Lumiere, while it is good of you to come visit Zoltán the Magnificent, I must ask how you knew of this location?"

"I asked at the Eagle. You aren't the most discreet of individuals," Sampson said. "And I didn't come to visit; I have questions for you."

His pale-blue eyes darted behind Sampson. "And you are alone?"

"Most obviously." Sampson felt around in his pockets. He handed Zoltán two bottles of beer and removed his cigarette case.

"Ah, how fortuitous! Zoltán was just remarking how he longed for a drink to soothe his parched throat. Come in, then, my friend!"

Sampson didn't wait for an invitation to sit. He lit a cigarette while Zoltán wrestled with opening the beer.

Zoltán was a thin man with stringy, unkempt hair of a strange silver color. His clothing was wrinkled, and he looked as if he hadn't slept in many days. He glanced nervously at the window every few moments. Finally, he opened the bottles and placed two glasses on the table with a dramatic flourish.

"So, my dear Mr. Lumiere, what brings you here to visit Zoltán the Magnificent? Are you looking for some magical entertainment? Ah, well, as your friend, Zoltán the Magnificent must inform you that it is quite likely he will not be avail –"

As he expelled a cloud of smoke, Sampson said, "Word is you've seen Spring-heeled Jack."

"Who told you that?" Zoltán hissed as his eyes darted toward the doorway.

"Everyone at the White Eagle." Sampson picked up his glass and took a drink. "As I've said, you're not very discreet."

Zoltán chewed on his lip.

"Tell me what you saw."

"Well." Zoltán emptied his glass. "You should prepare yourself! For the story is quite remarkable."

Sampson waited.

"Ah, yes!" Zoltán rose to his feet and his voice deepened as he took on his stage persona. "It was almost a fortnight ago when Zoltán the Magnificent was on his way home from The White Eagle. It had been a good night for Zoltán, so he'd stopped at a certain spot with certain ... entertainments. You know the place, I'm sure." Zoltán winked at Sampson. "In point of fact, there is a particularly nice bit of –"

"Get on with it."

Zoltán cleared his throat and raised his arms. "It was raining when Zoltán continued his walk home. Down an alley he heard such an uproar, he stopped. There were terrifying sounds of screams and unearthly growls – it was enough to make Zoltán the Magnificent quake in fear."

"Did you go down the alley?"

Zoltán shook his head. "Heavens, no!"

Sampson poured the rest of his beer into Zoltán's glass. "What happened?"

"Zoltán was about to find a constable when something ran into him and they tumbled to the ground entwined. There was much confusion and a tussle on the ground and Zoltán was certain his days were at an end!"

Sampson doubted there was much of a tussle. He crushed out his forgot cigarette and removed another. "Was it a dog or another animal?"

"No, not a dog, my friend, it was something from the depths of hell." He exhaled and took another drink of beer. "It had pointy ears, long claws, sharp teeth, glowing eyes, and it was covered in blood. I assure you; I observed it at a very close range."

"Then, how is it you're still alive?"

"Yes, Zoltán wondered if you would ask that." He waved his arms and acted out the scene. "It fixed Zoltán with a stare of ill intent and raised its bloodied claws but then it stopped when it heard the bell."

"Bell?"

"Zoltán heard it, too. It was a bell such as used to call servants."

"And this creature stopped when it heard the bell?" Sampson arched an eyebrow.

"Yes! It was the bell of a miracle, saving Zoltán's life." Zoltán went back to acting out the scene. "The monster cocked its demonic head, listening intently, and then it regained its feet and then jumped to the roof."

Sampson paused – the match in his hand hovered over the rough table. "It jumped to the roof? In one leap?"

"Yes." Zoltán collapsed into his chair before he amended what he said, "No, it didn't do it in a single movement. It made a series of leaps, propelling itself off window sills and brick, but only a couple of feather-like touches and then it was on the roof."

Sampson watched him closely. Zoltán's voice had returned to normal, he was obviously deeply affected by whatever he'd seen.

"Mr. Lumiere, believe me when I tell you I've seen my share of acrobats – in fact there was a time I aspired to be one myself – but I've never seen anything quite as remarkable as that unholy creature's ascent to the roof."

Sampson struck the match and lit his cigarette. "Did you go down the alley, then?"

"I did." Zoltán shuddered. "I saw a woman, bloodied and dead, her throat torn out. Dreadful."

Zoltán's encounter had happened a fortnight ago. Sampson watched the curling smoke from his cigarette and remembered the woman. She had been the second murder victim, thin and frail, pale cheeks sunk with a wasting illness. When Sampson had touched her, underneath her fear he had felt her gratitude. Though she was afraid, she knew her death would end her unbearable suffering.

He shook his head clear of the memory and focused on Zoltán again. "Did you go to the police?"

Zoltán shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "No, the constables would've accused me of doing it!"

Sampson didn't comment. Zoltán was correct: had he gone to the police, he certainly would have been arrested for the murder and held, possibly until the next murder. Even then, if he was lucky, he would have spent the rest of his life in a workhouse or, more likely, been sentenced to a boat.

"Zoltán – in light of your ... profession, the story is difficult to accept."

"Ah! But I have proof!" He scampered over to his belongings and returned in seconds. He held out his curled fist to Sampson and as he opened his hand he said, "Zoltán told you that he tussled with the beast. What do you make of this?"

Sampson leaned in and took a long look. In the palm of Zoltán's hand was a small gold lapel pin. Etched onto the pin was a five-sided shape with something that looked like a blazing fire in the middle. "You took this from your attacker? It was clothed?"

"Aye. Zoltán snatched the pin from the creature's very jacket! And a fine jacket it was!"

Sampson's brow furrowed as he stared at the pin. Why would a demon creature need clothing? "Have you shown this to anyone?"

"Aye." Zoltán nodded. "It's gold, as you can see, and poor Zoltán is not so well off. But he has a contact who deals with items similar to this."

"You mean someone who melts down stolen gold so it's no longer recognizable."

"Well, yes, I suppose he does do that sort of thing." Zoltán shrugged as he stared at Sampson. "But the man refused to help Zoltán and he was quite uncivilized about it. He went so far as to physically throw Zoltán from his shop!"

"Is that so?" Sampson straightened.

"Yes. He appeared to be afraid when he saw it – the very idea! Mr. Lumiere, have you seen its like before?"

"No."

"Nor has Zoltán." The pin disappeared from Zoltán's fingers.

"Is the pin why you're hiding?"

"No. Now that is another story – and a very peculiar story it is." Zoltán threw back the beer Sampson had poured for him and he took on the dramatic booming stage voice again. "After the encounter with the creature, Zoltán added the story to his entertainment repertoire. The story was met with great success and it was much talked of. It appeared that Zoltán's fearful ordeal had been a grand piece of luck!"

Sampson's patience was at an end. "Will you quit blathering and get to the point. Now."

"Zoltán's life is in danger." He poured out the last of his beer and looked sadly at the empty bottle. "Last night, when he was making his way home, pockets jingling with pence and even a few shillings, a man cornered him. He said that by telling the story Zoltán had drawn unwanted attention to himself." He drained the glass.

Sampson's fingers tapped the table while he waited.

"He said Zoltán would be the next victim and he was warning Zoltán as a friend. He didn't wish to see anyone else die. He also said the only way to save Zoltán's life was to get out of town and he was generous with a fair bit of coin." He swallowed hard. "But Zoltán cannot leave London! Where would he go?"

"So that's why you're here." Something wasn't adding up for Sampson. "What did the man look like?"

"The street was dark and Zoltán could not see the man's face, but he was of some small stature. He carried himself well and by his dress, I would say he doesn't live in the Chapel, but neither was he a gentleman. I would venture to say he was a merchant."

"And he was alone?"

"Aye."

Sampson took a notepad and pencil from his pocket and scrawled out a note. "Are you familiar with Thrall street?"

"I am."

"Take this note to 39 Thrall Street and ask for Mr. York." Sampson handed Zoltán the note. "He will get you a comfortable room."

Zoltán reached for the note and at the last moment, Sampson pulled it back. "Tell no one. Do you understand?"

"Zoltán understands!"

Sampson nodded and stood up. "Do it tonight."

Zoltán stood and with a ridiculous wave of his arms bowed deeply. "Mr. Lumiere, Zoltán is touched to know you care so much for hi–"

"Enough of that." Sampson headed for the door. "I expect I'll have more questions. I'll come visit you tomorrow or the next day."

"Yes, my friend, I will be waiting."

Sampson reached the door but before he opened it, he turned and faced Zoltán one more time. Candle light spilled from the small room and around Zoltán standing in the doorway, leaving his features in the dark. His form was little more than an outlined apparition, and the sight made Sampson uneasy. "And remember what I said, Zoltán. Tell no one."


	5. A Most Interesting Encounter at the Chemist's Shop

Chapter 5  
 _A Most Interesting Encounter at the Chemist's Shop_

 

Sampson was exceedingly lucky; on the return trip from Whitechapel he was able to flag down a cab. During his journey home, he considered Zoltán's retelling of the murder. Their conversation had brought up more questions than it had answered. But the one thing he was now certain of was that somehow, the so-called "creature" was not working independently.

Sampson watched the streets of the East End pass by and his idle thoughts moved from the puzzle of the murders to the ridiculous Zoltán. That someone would want to kill Zoltán was hardly news; he was trying for even the most patient of people. His life was pathetically solitary, a rush mat on a pallet, living meagerly from day to day. Strangely enough, Sampson had more than a thread of understanding about Zoltán's desperate need for attention. But that led Sampson to ponder another problem – it was unlikely that Zoltán would be smart enough to keep his new location quiet. Sampson would need to warn Mr. York about possible trouble.

He felt tired and worn out, but he experienced an odd aversion to going home. Gus was not scheduled to come by that night and he knew all that waited for him there was a cold and empty room. When he thought about it, Zoltán's life and his own weren't dissimilar.

Tapping on the coach roof, he shouted, "Stop at Ford's Chemist."

"Aye, sir."

Ford's was closed when he exited the cab but he could see the glimmer of a light inside. He knew it was late, but he knocked on the door all the same.

Mr. Ford, a short and sturdy man with gray hair, answered the door. "Mr. Lumiere. Please come in."

Sampson stepped inside. "My apologies for calling so late."

"Are you ill, Mr. Lumiere?" Mr. Ford said as he stepped behind the counter. "Can I get you something?"

"No." Sampson looked around. "This is more of a social call. I wished to speak with Gus."

"Ah, I see." Mr. Ford smiled. "August is currently making a delivery, and I'll need to leave soon myself for an appointment, but please come into the house for a glass of port."

"Oh, I couldn –"

"No, please, I insist." Mr. Ford opened a door and disappeared inside. "There is something I would speak with you about."

Not feeling as if he could refuse, Sampson resigned himself to further conversation and followed Mr. Ford into the house.

"Please sit down, Mr. Lumiere." Mr. Ford stopped at a sideboard and poured two glasses of port from a decanter.

Sampson sat down in an impressively cushioned chair near the dying fire. It was quite warm and comfortable.

Once he handed Sampson his glass of port, Mr. Ford sat in a nearby chair. "Mr. Lumiere, has August informed you of his background?"

Sampson shook his head. "I know he's your nephew and that you took him in, but that's the extent of my knowledge."

"Yes. His mother was my sister – she was never of a strong constitution, and she died when August was very young. His father was busy with business and did not have the time or the inclination to raise his son. He sent August off to boarding school – he was left there full time. But later, when his father died heavily in debt, August lost what little fortune he had. That is when I took him in. I wish I'd been able to intervene sooner."

Sampson shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sipped his port. If Gus had volunteered such personal information, Sampson would have found the story more palatable. But hearing the information from Mr. Ford made Sampson feel as if he were prying unintentionally.

Mr. Ford glanced at the clock. "Has August given you details about our current situation?"

Sampson hoped he was not betraying Gus's trust when he said, "He spoke of trouble between you and your son, but he didn't offer anything specific."

"Yes." Mr. Ford stood up and slowly paced the floor. "I'm afraid some of the dealings Nathaniel has entangled himself in are very questionable. Suffice it to say, the path he's on will have dire consequences for him. His actions have also entangled August and myself – although I'm not certain August is aware of it yet."

"Mr. Ford, are you requesting my help as a police inspector?"

Mr. Ford stopped and shook his head. "No, not as yet. I would prefer discretion, and there's a chance I can resolve the issue without involving anyone in a more official capacity."

Sampson set his glass down and sat up. "Are these people your son is connected with – do you feel they are dangerous?"

"Yes," Mr. Ford said. "I'm afraid they are."

"Then why risk handling the situation yourself?"

"I risk it because there is possible scandal and my reputation to consider, Mr. Lumiere." Mr. Ford resumed his deliberate pacing. "But although they might be rough, but they are also businessmen. I'm certain they can be bargained with."

When Sampson saw the determination on Mr. Ford's face, he knew arguing with him would only result in wasted breath. He kept his opinions to himself.

"But now we come to the reason for our little talk." Mr. Ford sat down again but only on the edge of the seat. "I would like to ask a favor of you."

Sampson reached for his cigarettes.

"As you know, August is very fond of you. With our recent trouble, I would feel much better if he could stay with you for a short time, beginning tonight. I realize this will be a terrible inconvenience, but –"

"He can stay with me." Sampson was surprised at how quickly the words tumbled out of him.

"Mr. Lumiere, this means the world to me." Mr. Ford reached out with evident relief and grasped Sampson's arm. He looked as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. "I don't know how to thank you."

Sampson shook his head. "It's nothing. But you should tell Gus yourself – otherwise, how will he know this is your wish?"

"I've left a letter for him."

"And how long do you intend to be gone?"

"Just a few hours, if all goes well."

"And if not?" Sampson asked the question although he already knew the answer. Mr. Ford would not be returning.

Mr. Ford stood up. "August has direction in the letter should I not return." He retrieved his hat and coat. "I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Lumiere, but I must keep my appointment."

Sampson rose and followed him. "Mr. Ford, I urge you to reconsider your actions. You'll gain nothing by negotiating with criminals."

"I must try." Mr. Ford opened the door and placed his hat on his head. "For Nathaniel's – and very likely August's – sake."

Sampson stayed outside long enough to see Mr. Ford off in his waiting cab. He did not know what Mr. Ford had in mind, but clearly the man was a fool. He lit a cigarette and considered his next course of action. He did not want Gus to come home to an empty house and the bad news contained in Mr. Ford's letter, not to mention there was every possibility the imbecile would run off after his uncle. But Sampson also did not want to stand outside waiting.

Instead, he walked across the street to Mr. Harris's Beer House. He drank his beer while he watched the shop and waited. As the hour grew late, he decided that as a last effort he would go around to the back entrance and check there. It was possible that Gus had got past him and into the house that way.

He was walking down the dark, narrow lane between the buildings and turning up his collar against the chill, when he heard the sound of glass breaking. Instinctively, he checked for the reassuring weight of his revolver and hurried down the alley. He turned the corner with caution and saw only an empty, cobbled street. Listening intently, the only sound he could hear was a steady, quiet creaking. He quickened his steps and moved toward the back entrance of the building, staying in the shadows.

One of the glass panes framing the doorway had been shattered and the heavy, wooden door swung free and open, creaking as a slight wind gently buffeted it. Sampson pulled out his gun, pushed the door open, and stepped quietly inside. His eyes had already adjusted to the darkness and he knew the layout, so he walked silently and with confidence, straining his ears and attempting to look every direction at once. His shadow danced across the walls, pacing him from one step to another. He wondered how the house he'd been sitting so comfortably in only an hour earlier had taken on a sinister edge.

There was a low yellow light coming from the chemist shop's open door. He moved closer, hearing noises of glass breaking and wooden drawers opening. He was certain someone was ransacking the supplies.

Sampson walked into the shop, raised his revolver, and shouted, "Police! Stop what you're doing."

The man's back stiffened, but he did as he was told. His arms dropped to his sides, though he kept his back to Sampson.

"Turn around."

As the man obeyed, Sampson's mental observations seemed to slow, becoming much sharper as even the smallest of details were noted, images burning into his memory. The man's turn was more of a shuffle than a fluid movement – he had new shoes, and they appeared to hurt his feet. He was a very round man, with large eyes and very full lips. His exertions had caused him to perspire, giving his skin a slimy-looking sheen. In the yellowish candlelight, he reminded Sampson of a frog.

Sampson scowled. "Who are you?"

The man didn't answer.

"So you don't have a name." Sampson took a step closer.

Frogman pursed his lips and shook his head.

Sampson narrowed his eyes, cataloging every detail and filing it away. The man's coat was well used but not tattered; on the contrary, it was wool and finely tailored – not clothing a thief would be in wearing. Beneath the overcoat Sampson could see a well-made jacket and a watch chain and in his hands the man clutched a small burlap bag.

Sampson closed the distance between them and held the gun to the man's chest. "If you move, I'll shoot you." He took the bag from the frogman and stepped back. The drawstring was open, and he upended it to see what was inside. A dozen or so small packets, like those used for pre-made curatives, tumbled to the ground.

Frogman made a noise of protest.

Still holding the revolver, his eyes on Frogman, Sampson knelt down and picked up one of the packets. "Well, well what have we here? Is this for you?"

Frogman glared.

"Did some –" Pain flared in the back of his head and he tipped forward, falling to the ground. As he fell, hovering on the edge of consciousness, he heard his gun skitter across the floor. His hard contact with the wood floor did not hurt, but he suspected he would feel it later. If he was still alive.

"It's about time you showed up. I thought he was going to kill me." Sampson assumed that was Frogman.

"Did you find it?" the other man asked.

"Yes." Distantly, Sampson could feel the bag slip from his fingers, and he fought to remain awake. "There were several packets made up if he wasn't lying to us. Did you get the nephew?"

"He's not here."

”We were told to get the potion and the young man. Perkins was –"

Somewhere in the distance, Sampson could hear the high-pitched sound of a police whistle.

"Ah, I believe it's time for us to go. Perkins will understand when we explain the unforeseen complications."

"What about him?" Frogman asked as Sampson was brutally kicked in his side. "He said he was with the police."

"Leave him. We can take care of him later, when it's not so obvious."

"Do you have the bell?"

"Of course." A loud, clear ringing filled the chemist's shop.

"I think we should do it again outside, just to make certain it's heard."

As Sampson listened to the retreating footsteps, he finally succumbed to darkness.

 

When Sampson regained consciousness, there was a cool cloth on his aching head. He also had a blanket over him. He sat up, his vision swimming momentarily before clearing.

"Mr. Lumiere?" Gus's welcome voice said. He knelt near Sampson. "I was so worried. How are you feeling?"

"I've been better, but I've also been worse."

Gus's features were full of concern. "I'm sorry I left you on the cold floor. I didn't want to risk injuring you further by dragging you into the house."

"How long have I been out?"

"I found you only a few minutes ago, so I'm unsure. It's one o'clock now."

Only a quarter of an hour had passed since Sampson had left the beer house. Sampson held out his arm. "Help me up, Gus."

"Are you well enough?"

"Yes, I need to get up."

Gus guided him into the living area of the house and to a chair. "Let me get you something to drink."

"What's happening outside? I heard police whistles."

"I'm not sure, sir," Gus said as he busied himself with the port. "There was quite a bit of commotion by the livery. I'd planned on returning to find out more, but I found the broken window and the opened door. Then, when I went to retrieve a lantern, there was a letter from my uncle waiting for me."

Sampson could hear the pain in Gus's voice. He cleared his throat and said, "I spoke with Mr. Ford earlier tonight."

"So you know more about our troubles?"

"Yes. No. I don't know what he was concerned about specifically, other than you and your cousin, that is."

Gus exhaled as he held out a glass of port to Sampson. "In my uncle's letter, he told me he was worried about a robbery, amongst other things. After I finished reading the letter, I went to check on the shop and that's when I found you. Do you remember what happened, sir?"

"My name is Lumiere, not 'sir,'" Sampson said tiredly. He swirled the port around in the glass. "I came inside when I found the broken window and the unlocked door. I discovered a man looking through the shelves and hoped to capture the villain, but I'm afraid I did a very poor job of it."

"I wouldn't say that, not at all! You risked yourself to help us. But I'm sorry you were injured." Gus leaned close and looked at Sampson's head. "May I check your wound again? You were bleeding, and I put some alum powder on it."

"That would be fine."

Gus's fingers were strong and sure as he poked and prodded at Sampson's scalp. "How does it feel?"

"It's manageable." Sampson had to force his eyes to stay open. "Did your uncle mention he wanted you to stay with me until the trouble is sorted out?"

"He said in the letter that he was planning on discussing it with you, yes." Gus sat back. "But I couldn't, Mr. –"

"Good, then it's settled. We should go now."

"I have to admit I'm relieved to hear you say it. I know it's an inconvenience –"

"None of that." Sampson remembered Frogman's discussion about capturing Gus, and he was suddenly very uncomfortable being in the house. "Gus, I think it would be good if we continue this conversation at my flat. We can come back in the light of day."

"Aye, Mr. Lumiere. I just need to cover the window and gather a few items."

"I'll fetch my revolver and check the shop to make sure it's secure." Sampson stood up. His head still hurt but he was feeling better. Grabbing a candle, he walked into the shop and searched for his gun. The burglars had left it, another sure sign they had not been petty thieves. He looked around, seeing the opened cabinets and the drawers askew. The room was in chaos, but Sampson knew matters could have been worse.

Then he saw the single packet in the middle of the floor – it must have been the one he had been holding at the time he had been hit; he must have fallen on it. He picked it up and placed it in his pocket, knowing that somehow, whatever was in the packet was dangerous and linked to all the problems at the chemist's shop.

He and Gus would have much to discuss at his flat.


	6. The Flavor of Domestic Life

Chapter 6  
 _The Flavor of Domestic Life_

 

Sampson was warm – an unusual experience for him in sleep. His body, particularly his cock, was also enjoying the morning comfort, alive with an aching desire to be touched. Physical pleasure was not an indulgence he normally granted himself, but this morning he seemed helpless to resist. Convinced he was dreaming, he rubbed himself along the warm body curled against him.

A throaty moan answered his caress and his arms tightened around the dream body, pressing his erection harder into the soft flesh. The fit was perfect, just as a dream should be. Somewhere in the back of his sleep-ridden brain, an alarm was attempting to warn him about something, but he ignored it.

The dream touch was too real, and it had been so long. And the last time hadn't been bad, but it had not been good either. This was different – the silky feel of skin and hair, and the whole-hearted response to the roll of Sampson's hips – this was how it should be.

His hand traveled over finely sculpted muscle and bone, finding his dream partner's erection. His fist curled and he stroked. The dream continued in its perfection, giving him the precise reaction he craved. When his cock pressed forward, the warm flesh pushed back into him with matching force. The friction of skin-on-skin was dizzying.

"Oh, that's good," his dream whispered.

Sampson opened his eyes and froze. This definitely was not a dream: this was Gus. Good God, what was he doing?

"Gus! I'm … " He pulled away and then frowned. "What the hell are you doing in my bed?"

"No!" Gus snagged Sampson's hand and pressed it back against his cock. "Please don't stop, Mr. Lumiere. Please."

"But –" Sampson's breath was ragged and he was still incredibly hard.

Gus looked over his shoulder. Bathed in the early morning light, his hazel-colored eyes looked almost golden. "It's been so long, please."

Sampson swallowed and then nodded. His fingers curled tight again and Gus settled back down with a contented sigh. Sampson had shifted his hips away, but Gus pushed back into him now, rubbing against his erection.

He was a little startled by this turn of events, but as he watched Gus's breaths become more frantic, Sampson's surprise turned to fascination. And as his hips met every press of Gus's arse, he even thought he might want to do this.

Gus's body stiffened and he cried out, and a warm stream of spend pooled in Sampson's hand. When Gus's shudders subsided, Sampson released him and reached for the nearest handkerchief. As he wiped off the mess, he wondered if his washer woman was the type to spread gossip about her clients.

"Thank you, sir," Gus said as he lay unmoving on his side. "I know that was selfish of me."

Sampson didn't know what to say. But he was still hard and feeling a bit frustrated.

Gus sat up, a wide smile on his face. "But I know how to make it up to you." He pulled back the blankets.

"You imbecile, it's cold! What are you –"

In one motion, Gus leaned over and his tongue licked tentatively at Sampson's erection, tasting him. Sampson shivered as Gus's warm breath caressed him. A moment later, Gus's mouth opened and his lips closed over the crown of Sampson's cock, his tongue swirling, invading, and pressing with erotic insistence.

And just when Sampson didn't think he could take anymore, Gus shifted and seemed to swallow him whole.

For a moment, Sampson forgot to breathe. The pressure of Gus's lips and throat closing on him was a pleasure he'd not experienced in recent memory, but it was doubled when Gus's mouth started to move. As the wet heat slid slowly up and then back down, only to begin again, Sampson could feel his cock growing harder and thicker. He already knew he wouldn't last long.

"Gus," he managed to say as he half-heartedly tried to still Gus's head. "You should stop before – you should stop."

Gus ignored Sampson's hands and continued to squeeze Sampson's cock with his mouth and tongue. His fingers gently caressed Sampson's balls and the sensitive patch of skin just below his sac, touching him with a confident, skilled knowledge.

Sampson closed his eyes, trusting Gus's gentle touch until his body tensed and his hips lifted, driving him impossibly deeper into Gus's mouth as he came. Tension drained out of him as he relaxed into the mattress, wondering what in blazes had just happened, but not caring enough yet to find out.

Gus slid off the bed, stood up, and stretched. Sampson watched him through half-closed eyes, noticing that there was much to admire in Gus's bronzed skin and compact body. Even so, Sampson would need to establish some rules about their living arrangements.

"It's cold!" Gus danced around. "And I'm famished! Is there anything to eat?"

"Doubtful," Sampson said. He really wanted a cigarette. "And put some clothes on before you catch your death."

Gus pulled a shirt on over his head. "I'll go get us something to eat."

"Not without me, you won't." Sampson sat up. "We can go down and see if Mrs. Edgecomb has laid out any food, and then you and I will need to have a frank discussion."

"It was boarding school." Gus grinned at him as he slid into his underclothing. "That's where I learned how to do that."

"Not about that, you imbecile! I was talking about your uncle and the shop, and why you're involved."

"Oh." Gus looked crestfallen. "As you wish, Mr. Lumiere."

Sampson got up and pulled on a pair of trousers. "And then you can tell me about boarding school. In detail."

Gus laughed. "Yes, sir."

"Perhaps, in light of our recent activities, you might call me Sampson when we are alone."

"Oh, no!" Gus looked horrified. "I couldn't possibly do that! That would be overly familiar of me."

Sampson raised an eyebrow at Gus's absurdity but didn't pursue the subject.

 

As it turned out, Gus was very hungry and Mrs. Edgecomb was pleased to have someone appreciate her food. She bustled about, almost glowing with the task of satisfying Gus's impressive appetite.

Sampson quietly watched the spectacle as he drank a cup of coffee and occasionally stared at his sausage and eggs. After he poured his second cup, he finally spoke up. "Do you know what was stolen from your uncle's shop?"

"It was a compound my cousin made up." Gus scooped up the last of his food.

Sampson nodded. "For his new friends?"

"Yes, but he was very secretive about it. He would only make it after the shop was closed, and he guarded it well. My uncle knew that's what they wanted, but he'd hoped he could use it to secure Nathaniel's freedom."

"And you don't know what it does?"

"I don't, I'm sorry."

"Should we check on your uncle?"

Gus sighed. "We can check, but I don't expect he'll be home."

"Why is that?" Sampson also did not expect Mr. Ford would be at the shop, but wanted to know Gus's thoughts on the matter.

"In his letter, he said that if the compound was stolen, he'd not likely be back. I think Nathaniel must have told them where to find it."

"What else did your uncle say?" Sampson had a bad feeling about this.

"He asked that I consult you."

Sampson lit a cigarette. Mr. Ford had been a fool; that point was certain.

"Do you think the criminals will injure them?"

Exhaling a smoky breath, Sampson said, "As chemists, they have value. But I must own that their circumstances will not be pleasant. Did your uncle give you the address?"

"No." Gus frowned. "He said he was worried about me following him."

"Well, he did one thing without error, it seems." Sampson puffed on his cigarette again and thought about what to do. He was already busy with the East End murders, but Gus's circumstances were dire. "We'll need to speak with Godfrey."

"Oh, do you mean the wealthy gentleman with the carriage?" Mrs. Edgecomb set down another plate in front of a delighted Gus.

"Yes." Sampson scratched his eyebrow and watched Gus as he picked up his knife and fork and started again. "When you're finished eating, that is."


	7. The Game Takes a Turn

Chapter 7  
 _The Game Takes a Turn_

 

In spite of knowing Mr. Ford would not be there, Sampson had insisted they stop at the chemist's shop before they went to Godfrey's. Gus was understandably agitated as they walked through the empty house. But in the light of day, the shop didn't look so bad to Sampson. Gus tidied up and checked outstanding orders as Sampson wandered around the house looking for any additional clues. He didn't find anything.

But while they were there, a balding man with bloodshot eyes named Mr. Smith had come into the shop. He had asked after Mr. Ford, but had not been surprised to find him out for an "undetermined" amount of time. In fact, he had seemed to expect it.

Later, on their journey to Godfrey's house, Sampson broached the subject. "Tell me about Mr. Smith," he said as he looked out the window of the cab.

"Mr. Smith?" Gus sat on the seat across from Sampson.

"Yes." Sampson shifted his gaze to Gus.

"Well, he's a very good friend of my uncle's. They've known each other for ages."

Sampson picked at a loose thread on his jacket. "Would your uncle have confided in him?"

"About what he was planning on for Nathaniel? Well, since the situation is so unusual, I'm not certain, but they were always very close. He's a good man and very loyal to my uncle."

"Huh." Sampson looked out the window again as he made a mental note to speak with Mr. Smith again. There was every possibility that Mr. Smith knew something that might help.

The cab came to a stop and Sampson stepped out. He climbed the steps to the front door with Gus at his side.

"This is Mr. Godfrey's house?" Gus's eyes were wide as he stared at the sprawling building. "It's enormous!"

"His London house, yes." Sampson knocked. "His estate is in Highbury."

"Then why would he seek employment? As such a wealthy gentleman, he wouldn't need to work."

Sampson made a disagreeable noise. "I believe his specific reason is simply to annoy me."

Thomas, Godfrey's butler, opened the door. "Hello, sir."

Sampson stepped inside, Gus at his heels. He shrugged out of his coat. "Is Mr. Godfrey in?"

"Yes, sir." Thomas accepted Sampson's coat and turned to Gus. "He's in his study."

"Thank you," Gus said as he handed over his coat.

Thomas blinked. "You're welcome, sir. I'll announce you, Mr. Lumiere."

"No need, Thomas, I know the way."

"But sir –"

Sampson walked through the house, past the noisy parrot, beyond the figure of armor, and down the hall lined with generations of family portraits. He pushed open the door and stepped into the study. It was a small room compared to any number of rooms in Godfrey's estate, but still larger than most in town. He looked over his shoulder to see Gus following in distracted obedience.

"My dear Sampson," Godfrey said as he set aside his paper and stood up. "What a rare and special sight."

"Hello Godfrey." Sampson sat down on a very comfortable couch. "I have something I wish to discuss with you."

"Yes, yes, Sampson, in a moment." Godfrey turned to Gus. "It's very agreeable to see you again, August. How are you?"

"I'm well, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Ah, none of that, now. Sit down, sit down! Would you like some sherry?" Godfrey walked to the decanter and opened it.

"Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Godfrey," Gus said as he sat down.

"Very good. I won't ask Sampson about the sherry; I already know the answer."

Sampson ignored Godfrey's taunt and waited for him to settle in. Rushing Godfrey never worked; he enjoyed and embraced his character as a contrary man. But once Godfrey was in his chair with his sherry, and done with his idle chatter, Sampson and Gus told him the story of Mr. Ford, Nathaniel, and the odd happenings at the chemist's shop.

Godfrey listened intently, asking the occasional question but taking in every detail. When they had finished their story, Godfrey sat silently, his fingers laced together.

Sampson drained his glass. "Well, what do you think?"

"This is not good news. Honest, hardworking businessmen disappearing thanks to the likes of some gang is troubling indeed. Coercion and threats are common enough in the East End, but outside ..."

"Have you heard of others?" Sampson sat up.

"No." Godfrey set down his glass. "Not threats and coercion, but this will make four robberies outside of Whitechapel in only a few days. And now I believe they're linked."

"Godfrey, I'm not following you. How can they be linked?"

"Because of the distraction. The beat cops are invariably away from their posts investigating sightings of Spring-heeled Jack when the burglaries happen. And although what happened at the chemist shop was a bit more than a simple burglary, there was a sighting of Spring-heeled Jack in your neighborhood last night."

"There have been sightings of 'Spring-heeled Jack'?" Sampson nearly spat out the ridiculous name, feeling his anger take shape. "That's the whistle I heard last night at the shop?"

"Indeed. That's what I read in the report this morning."

Sampson's fingers dug into the edge of the couch. "Blast it! This is my case, Godfrey. Why in blazes haven't I been informed of these sightings?"

"Because no one has been able to confirm that's what they saw. There's been no murder, which is what seeing Spring-heeled Jack has meant until now. Also, you must take into account that there's unease in the city, my lad. Imagination can be a powerful force when combined with fear. Even so, two or three such instances I could dismiss as wild fancy, but four is a decided pattern." Godfrey settled deeper into his chair, lost in thought.

"A copy-cat?" Sampson offered, feeling his ire ebb.

"Yes, that is my thought exactly." Godfrey closed his eyes. "But I urge you to speak with the detectives assigned to the burglary cases."

Sampson knew the answer, but he asked anyway. "And who might that be?"

"Brennan and Verinder, of course. They are the best if you're not available."

"I am available, Godfrey!" Brennan and Verinder. The thought of dealing with them brought a flood of new anger.

"You're not available." Godfrey's eyes snapped open. "You are working a series of murders in the East End and will continue to do so, do you understand?"

"Yes." Sampson rose and turned for the door, his face hot with his fury. "Well, if there isn't anything more, I think we'll be on our way."

"Very well. But August, I would speak with you for a moment, if you please."

Gus looked in surprise at Sampson but agreed all the same. "Yes, sir."

Sampson stormed out of the room. He paused at the entrance of the house and waited for Gus, wondering what idiocy Godfrey was telling him. Godfrey was fond of Gus, but fondness wouldn't stop him from using Gus for his own purposes.

After several minutes of waiting, his patience ended, and Sampson started back for the study. He had only taken a few steps when there was a frantic knock at the front door. He stopped when Thomas opened the door and a police constable stepped into the entryway.

"Inspector Lumiere!" Constable O'Malley said. "This is a bit o'luck, finding you here, sir."

"Why is that, O'Malley?"

"On account there's been another demon murder in Whitechapel, Inspector. A right bloodbath is this one, sir."


	8. A Right Bloodbath

Chapter 8  
 _A Right Bloodbath_

 

When he heard the address, 39 Thrall Street, Sampson already knew who the victim was. Apparently, the odd nighttime warning to Zoltán had been in earnest. Yet how had the killer located Zoltán so quickly? Sampson suspected the imbecile had blathered his hidden address to someone – possibly anyone who'd listen.

Perhaps. But then again, there was no doubt the fool had been frightened out of his wits. That he would destroy the one chance he had of staying alive seemed unlikely. Sampson wondered if he had been followed, but while he could not discount the possibility, he did not think it likely. He had not had encounters himself with the murderer.

As he pondered his thoughts during the cab ride to Whitechapel, he became aware of Gus's steady gaze.

"Do you have a question?" Sampson said as he searched for his cigarettes.

"I didn't know you were related to Mr. Godfrey." Gus looked a little put off by the information.

Sampson shrugged. "Relations are not of our choosing; you're aware of that, I think."

"You'll be wealthy someday."

"I suppose." Godfrey's death was not something Sampson liked to dwell on. "Is that troubling to you? Did Godfrey bully you?"

"No, no!" Gus blushed. "On the contrary. Mr. Godfrey has a peculiar notion that somehow I am a good influence on you. That makes little sense to me."

"And to me." Sampson struck a match on his boot and lit his cigarette. "But I will offer you a little advice, Gus. Godfrey does enjoy teasing people, so it's best to not take him at his word."

"I see," Gus said with a nod. He seemed to relax a bit. "But I was surprised to find out that you're working on the Spring-heeled Jack killings. Aren't you frightened?"

"Why should I be?"

"Because!" Gus sat up and became quite lively as he spoke. "It's a demon! It kills people and then leaps over buildings to get away. It's like some cautionary tale told to frighten bad children into behaving."

"And that is why I'm not afraid." Sampson exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Someone is preying on people's fears. It's not a demon, it's a man – and I will prove it when we catch him."

"But how can you be so certain?"

Sampson shook his head. "Men are evil enough. There is no need for demons."

Gus smiled and then laughed. "Forgive me, but that's not a very sound argument, Mr. Lumiere."

"Think what you will."

After a moment, Gus leaned back in his seat. "You still haven't asked me about school."

Sampson kept silent. There was a part of him that was very curious about Gus's adventures at boarding school, but he also knew should be thinking about his work. His betraying body, however, had other ideas.

Gus took the silence for encouragement. "There were three of us at school, who indulged in such evil doings."

Sampson arched an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you subscribe to the church's view on ... indulging."

"No, not really, but we did know we were different. We were all very fond of each other. What I did this morning was just one thing we used to do to one another, but I know more. We had to be very careful and discreet. If we had been found out, the consequences would have been unimaginable."

Sampson shifted on his seat, trying to ease the tightness in his trousers as unwanted ideas of what else Gus might know fueled his imagination. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I would like to do more of those things with you – if you are agreeable to it, that is." Gus tipped his head knowingly to one side and smiled. "And I wanted to reassure you that I'm very discreet. Sampson."

Gus's look was so intimate and inviting, the effect made Sampson's cock unbearably hard. If they still had time, he would –

The cab came to a stop and Sampson fought a groan of frustration.

"Well, yes." Sampson cleared his throat. "I think we'd better discuss this – at length – back in my room, Gus."

"Yes, Mr. Lumiere. I look forward to it."

Sampson all but jumped out of the cab and hoped his trousers disguised his arousal. He knew that in a few moments, what he saw would take care of any lingering erection.

He waited for Godfrey to meet him, and then the two went inside.

"Oh, Mr. Lumiere – thank goodness you're here," Mr. York came running to meet Sampson when he stepped inside the house. Usually Mr. York was a jolly man who did enjoy his gin and cigars, but today his face wore a scowl of fear and concern. "I did my best, I swear to you, sir! No one knew he was here!"

"Mr. York, pray, be easy." Sampson tried to reassure the man. "I'm happy to see that you are uninjured."

"I don't expect I'll be sleeping much for a spell, but the rest of the house is well. It was just poor Mr. Zoltán who got it."

"Show me," Sampson said.

Mr. York took them up a narrow staircase and to a tiny room in the back. The room was secret, more of a closet within a room. It had no windows and no visible means of entry – you had to know how to open the panel. In this case, however, the panel had been torn asunder. Sampson noted the bloody footprints that led out of the room and to a broken window.

"He wasn't wearing shoes," Sampson commented as he studied the prints.

Godfrey frowned. "They look more like hand prints, but odd for even that."

Mr. York said, "That Zoltán fellow had only been here since the early evening. I got him settled according to your note, with food and some beer, in this secret room. It was about two o'clock when I heard the terrible racket of the splintering wood."

"Did you come up?" Sampson looked at the panel pieces. Ragged gouges marked the wood where it hadn't actually been splintered.

"Yes." Mr. York shook his head sadly. "But not right away. I'm not ashamed to say I was scared to death when I heard the noise; there were screams and the like, sir. I waited until the noise stopped and I worked up my courage. I was too late to do anything for him, the poor lad."

"Those scratches on the wood – they look like claw marks," Gus said from behind.

"Yes, it was that demon that done it!"

Sampson looked at the open doorway and then turned to Gus. "I would advise you to stay here."

"Aye, lad, listen to Mr. Lumiere," Mr. York said. "It be a gruesome and bloody sight in there."

Gus stepped back, blood draining from his face.

Sampson could already smell the cloying scent of death, but even his years of witnessing violent deaths did not completely prepare him for what he saw. Zoltán's throat and torso had been completely torn open; it was easy to distinguish his heart and lungs under his rib cage. The bloody spray from his wounds had marked the walls, floor, and even the ceiling in a few places.

"Good God," Godfrey whispered.

Sampson suspected God had little to do with this as he took in every detail. Zoltán's right arm was over his head, bitten savagely several times, possibly as he attempted to protect himself. This murder differed from the others because it had happened indoors and because Zoltán appeared to be a specific target, but other than that, the end result was that someone was dead.

"You're not going to touch him, are you?" Godfrey's concern was evident.

"What else can I do?" Sampson crouched down next to Zoltán, trying to locate an unbloodied patch of skin. It wasn't an easy task.

Godfrey rubbed his temples. "Your father would –"

"My father is dead, Godfrey." Sampson snapped. "And his murder is still unsolved."

"But –"

"Enough." Sampson reached forward and gently ran his fingertip along the inside of Zoltán's left arm.

Flashes of growling, teeth-snapping chaos assaulted him. Zoltán's crushing fear was so deep his screams did little to express it. But through the fragmented images of red, immense pain, and the all-consuming terror, Sampson could feel something else filter through: a flash of gold. He staggered to his feet, his breathing shallow and rapid as the scenes faded from his vision.

Godfrey held out his arms, there to catch Sampson if he stumbled, but he kept his feet firmly under him.

"Check under the mattress," Sampson gasped. "There should be a small bag."

Godfrey did as Sampson directed and, after a moment, shook his head. "There's nothing but bloody foot and hand prints."

Sampson fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pencil. He quickly drew the symbol he'd seen on the lapel pin Zoltán had in his possession and showed it to Godfrey. "Do you recognize this?"

"What is that?" Godfrey asked. "I don't recognize the symbol."

"I don't know." Sampson's heartbeat was finally slowing. "Zoltán showed me a gold lapel pin he had in his possession. He told me an outlandish story of wrestling with the murderer before. He said he'd ripped off the pin in the struggle. And while I believe it's more likely the pin came off of its own accord, Zoltán was adamant that it came from the murderer. He was convinced he was being hunted because of it."

"And you think the murderer took the pin."

"I know he did." Sampson glanced around the small room. There wasn't much, but it had been turned upside down. "That's the difference between this murder and the others, Godfrey."

"Then, that –" Godfrey pointed the paper. "Is finally a clue, isn't it?"

Sampson nodded.

"Well, my lad, then why are we still standing inside this slaughter house?"

They left the room to find a fretful Mr. York and a strangely reserved Gus. Godfrey called on to the constables to fetch the mortuary folk as Sampson did his best to reassure Mr. York that the killer would not be back.

He asked Mr. York a few more useless questions, showing him the symbol to no avail. Sighing, he folded closed his notebook and pulled out his cigarettes to smoke. That was when he noticed Gus's intense gaze. He'd been staring at Sampson's open notebook.

"Mr. York, if you can think of anything else, please send word to me at the station." Sampson shook Mr. York's hand, discreetly passing him enough money to help him with the clean-up and repairs. And to hopefully keep Mr. York's door open for future endeavors.

"Thank you, sir. I will."

Godfrey met them at the front door. "I believe your cabbie has left you in the lurch. Where has the day gone, I wonder? Well, I'll take you home."

"Good. Come along, Gus."

They were only a few steps from Mr. York's house when Sampson pulled out his notebook and opened it to the page with the mysterious symbol. "Now, Gus, where have you seen this?"

"Nathaniel had a lapel pin with that very mark," Gus whispered. "All of his friends had them. Does it have something to do with what happened in that house?"

Sampson closed the notebook and carefully put it away. "I believe it does."

"Dear God," Gus said with a shudder. "What has my cousin got himself into?"


	9. Brennan's Hunch

Chapter 9  
 _Brennan's Hunch_

 

Sampson was rarely surprised by anything in life, but Gus was an endless source of amazement.

After Gus shared his startling news about Nathaniel, Godfrey had insisted he and Sampson dine at his house. Initially, Gus made excuses and tried to beg off, but Godfrey – in his fine manipulative fashion – had an answer for each of Gus's excuses. Gus was finally swayed when Godfrey explained Cook's marvelous food and that there would be no end to it.

Even Sampson had to own to a weakness for Cook's sweets. But it was Gus's reversal and subsequent pleading that finally caused Sampson to give in to Godfrey's wishes. Still, he was wary, wondering what his meddlesome uncle might be up to.

That night at dinner, Cook outdid herself. They had a savory soup, roast pork, potatoes, vegetables, lemon ice, dinner rolls with butter, various pickles and cheeses, and finally, a fancy spice cake. Sampson sipped his coffee as he watched Gus finish.

"Even your appetite must be satisfied by now," Godfrey said with a wide smile.

"Yes! The food was so good; I felt it was important to try each dish."

Sampson shook his head. "You ate everything."

"Come along then, Sampson, let's move into the smoking room." Godfrey stood up. "And August, the bath upstairs should be prepared for you now."

"Bath? What?" Sampson sputtered, his glare moving from Godfrey to Gus.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Godfrey walked out of the dining room down the hall toward the smoking room. "I think it would be good to stay here tonight."

"Wha–"

"And August agreed with me, didn't you, lad?"

Gus looked down. "I, um, I – Well, I would like to take a bath."

"Go, Thomas will help you." Godfrey waved him off. "And don't worry about Sampson, he knows I've coerced you."

Gus gave Sampson one long look of confusion before Thomas appeared at his shoulder. "This way, sir."

"Go," Sampson said with a sigh and a wave, knowing he was beaten. He watched Gus disappear deeper into the house.

Sampson remained silent, following Godfrey. Once they were both seated and he had a lit cigarette he said, "Godfrey, what are you trying to do here?"

"You like August very much, don't you?"

Sampson inhaled on his cigarette but didn't answer.

Godfrey lit his pipe and change tack. "You think he's in danger, don't you?"

Sampson nodded.

"Then why would you not want to stay here? My house is quite secure compared to your rooms. No one need know he's here. You could even leave him in my –"

"No," Sampson said. He knew his uncle was up to something, but he couldn't deny that Godfrey made a very sound argument. "We'll stay tonight," he added, feeling a keen sense of disappointment. He'd been looking to spending another night alone with Gus.

Godfrey leaned close and patted Sampson's arm. "Don't worry, my lad, I've thought of everything."

 

"Mr. Lumiere, sir?"

Sampson cracked open an eyelid to see the ever-patient Thomas staring at him. "What is it, Thomas?"

"I'm sorry to wake you sir, but it's the young man, Mr. Montaine."

Absently, Sampson ran his hand over the opposite side of his bed. The bedding was vacant and cool – indicating Gus had left some time earlier. "What about him, Thomas?"

"Well, sir." Thomas cleared his throat. "I believe he's rather hungry, sir."

"That's hardly news, Thomas. Gus is always hungry." Sampson's eyes slid closed again. His night, while quite enjoyable, hadn't been exactly restful. "Tell him to eat without me, I'll be down later."

Thomas coughed. "Well, sir, under normal circumstances I would. But it also appears that Mr. Godfrey is expecting guests, and he will not allow anyone to eat until you to join them."

"Ridiculous. Who in blazes has guests for breakfast?"

"I know, sir." Thomas interlaced his fingers in front. "It is highly irregular, but you know how determined Mr. Godfrey can be."

Sampson sighed heavily. "So you are to be the bearer of bad news and must drag me to breakfast."

"Yes sir." Godfrey tried to smile. "I see you understand the situation in its entirety."

Sampson liked Thomas. He knew Godfrey for the man he really was and – in his own subtle way – would share the occasional joke with Sampson about Godfrey's manipulative side. Even so, it would be Thomas who would bear the brunt of the situation if Sampson did not give way.

"Very well. Tell his lordship I'll be down directly."

"Yes sir." Thomas's lips twitched, hinting at a conspiratorial smile. "Thank you, sir."

 

Sampson had managed to wash and dress in a short amount of time so he was beyond annoyed to find the breakfast room nearly empty when he arrived. Only Gus was there to greet him. Sampson poured himself a cup of coffee from the sideboard and sat at the table, still not fully awake.

Across from him Gus fidgeted in his chair. After several moments he looked over at Sampson and said, "I'll need to make some deliveries today."

Sampson's cup of coffee was halfway to his mouth. "Impossible. I'll need to make some inquires today in Whitechapel. Your deliveries can wait for another time."

Gus shook his head. "Mr. Lumiere, they cannot wait – you must see that. No one has worked the shop for longer than a day now, and there are customers who must have their medicine. Mrs. Jensen, for one, she has a weak –"

"Tomorrow."

"Today. It must be today." Gus's eyes flashed with anger. "And I am capable of making deliveries on my own. Be reasonable. It will be daylight, and I know all of these people."

"Out of the question."

Gus jumped to his feet. "I don't need a nursemaid, Mr. Lumiere!"

"Yes, you do. At least for the moment," Sampson said, his voice softer than he thought possible. But he was sympathetic to Gus's frustration. "Now, sit down and we'll discuss it."

"My goodness, you two," Godfrey said with bright smile as he entered the room. He wasn't alone.

Sampson exhaled with a heavy sigh when he saw Brennan's shock of red hair. His day was not starting out well.

Godfrey's smile widened when he saw Sampson's reaction. "Mr. Montaine, may I introduce Messrs. Brennan and Verinder. I asked them to join us for breakfast, as we have much to discuss afterward."

Gus stood up and shook their hands. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

Politeness oozed from Verinder as he said, "I understand you work at the chemist shop run by Mr. Ford?"

But then again, Verinder oozed politeness much of the time.

"I do. Mr. Ford is my uncle."

"The one who's missing?" Brennan sat down like the oaf he was.

"I would ask that this discussion not take place at the table, please." Godfrey's smile was still in place, but there was sternness in his voice.

Brennan nodded. "As you wish."

The five of them ate their breakfast of bacon, eggs, kippers, and potatoes, with biscuits, butter, and jam. Conversation was strained and sparse, but when Gus attacked his third full plate of food, the remaining diners watched in awed amazement.

Godfrey was first to comment. "Mr. Montaine has the most extraordinary appetite, wouldn't you say?"

"I'll say," Brennan said with a laugh. "Where's he put it in such a small body?"

Gus looked up and swallowed hard before saying, "I'm not small!"

"You are! I'm not trying to insult you, boy, but even you must see it."

"I don't see it," Gus said with growing anger in his voice.

"Enough!" Sampson slapped his hands on the table.

"Well," Godfrey's insufferable smile was back. "Perhaps we should adjourn to the smoking room. And Mr. Montaine, please join us when you've finished."

Gus didn't take much longer. And once the five of them were settled in Godfrey's smoking room, Sampson said, "You wanted to talk with me about the incident at the chemist shop, correct?"

Brennan had a match to his cigarette, but he looked over at Verinder.

Verinder explained, "Yes. There've been some odd happenings outside of the East End, robberies so far, and they seemed to be entwined with the murders and the body-snatching in Whitechapel."

Murders. Verinder hadn't mentioned "demons" or "Spring-heeled Jack" when speaking of the murders. Sampson filed that bit of information away.

"How so?" Godfrey asked. "There are sightings of this mythical creature, aren't there?"

"Yes. And that's our connection." Verinder stared at Sampson – his gaze was almost hot in its fervor. "Each time there's been a burglary, the constables in charge of the area have been called away to investigate an alleged sighting of Spring-heeled Jack."

So far, Verinder wasn't telling Sampson anything new. "Yes, yes. So we have someone impersonating the East End murderer and committing robberies. That's hardly a new approach to crime."

"A copy-cat is what we thought, as well," Brennan said.

"Then why bother me?" Sampson was beginning to tire of the conversation.

"I'm still not convinced that they aren’t linked." Brennan frowned.

Godfrey sat back deeper into his chair, seeming to watch everyone and no one simultaneously. "Whyever not, Brennan?"

Brennan shrugged. "Just a hunch. I get those sometimes." He turned his head toward Sampson and lazily exhaled a ring of smoke. "I'm sure you understand, Lumiere."

Sampson's scalp prickled.

Verinder nodded. "Brennan's hunches are rarely wrong. But there's more to it than that. The sounding of a bell always accompanies the supposed sightings. Mr. Godfrey informed us your attackers spoke of the bell the night Ford's Chemist's shop was ransacked."

"Yes." The prickling became gooseflesh as Sampson remembered. "The burglars thought I wasn't conscious and discussed it freely. When they heard the police whistle they were in a hurry to leave and spoke of the bell as if they would be using it for some purpose."

Brennan sounded breathless when he said, "That night, the sighting happened very close to a constable, so there was no delay in his investigation into the matter. He resumed his beat relatively quickly."

"So perhaps the bell is a signal." Sampson wasn't certain he liked that explanation. It seemed too simple.

There was quiet in the room as each man retreated to his own thoughts.

After a few moments Gus said, "Mr. Lumiere, what about the drawing you have? The symbol from the lapel pins."

Sampson got up and moved to Godfrey's writing desk where he quickly recreated a crude rendering of the lapel pin's symbol.

Verinder and Brennan had joined him, and when he finished, he looked up to see surprise marking their features. "Well? Have you seen this?"

"By God, we have!" Brennan said.

Verinder added, "In one of the burgled businesses, we saw that very symbol scrawled onto a piece of paper. It had been left on the floor, so we weren't sure if it had been a message. When we asked the owner of the shop about it, he absolutely denied he knew anything about it." He paused and looked at Brennan.

"But how do you know about this mark? Did you see it at Ford's Chemist's?" Brennan's eyes were nearly glowing with excitement.

"No, I did," Gus said as he joined them. "My cousin's friends, the ones who entangled him – they sported pins with that symbol."

"Ah, so that's the connection." Verinder sounded a little disappointed.

"I saw it in Whitechapel," Sampson said slowly. "A man named Zoltán swore to me that he had taken it off a monster that'd attacked him. He became the latest victim."

Godfrey had remained silent in his chair up until now. "Well, Mr. Brennan, it appears your hunch was correct. The crimes are connected."

Brennan looked unsurprised. "Yes, but I'm not certain that's a good thing. This has become much bigger, hasn't it?"

"Yes. And now we have to decide how to proceed," Verinder said as he returned to his seat.

Sampson rubbed his fingers against one another. Although it galled him to include Brennan and Verinder in his plans, it did appear they'd won the right to know. "I think I might know where to start."

Godfrey narrowed his eyes. "What's your plan?"

"I said I might know where to start, not that I had a plan."

"But I know that look." Godfrey frowned. "So what will you do now?"

"I need to see Nullus."

"Nullus!" Godfrey sat up straight. "My lad, have you lost your senses?"

"Working with you, yes, I'm sure I have. But only Nullus has the knowledge to answer some outstanding questions I have."

Godfrey laughed. "You do like to tempt fate. Yes, he may have the answers, but at what cost will they come? I believe the last time you –"

"Yes, yes," Sampson waved away the rest of Godfrey's speech. "I was naive then. This time I'll be much more guarded."

"Well, don't drink the tea, at least."

Sampson nodded. "You have no worries on that account."


	10. A Conversation with Dr. Ulysses Nullus

Chapter 10  
 _A Conversation with Dr. Ulysses Nullus_

 

By late morning, Sampson and Verinder were seated inside a hired cab and were on their way to the university. Sampson had originally argued with Godfrey about not needing someone with him, but his argument, sound as it was, backfired on him. While Verinder's presence was annoying, even Sampson had to agree that any meeting with Nullus was fraught with possible danger.

A knowledge Sampson was all too familiar with. He shivered with his memories.

"I can tell you, with the utmost certainty, that Mr. Montaine is quite angry with you," Verinder said with a small smile.

"I gave him a choice. He opted to make deliveries."

"And I'm equally certain I will hear Brennan's complaints for days to come." Verinder sighed.

"There was only one solution, and Brennan agreed to it. Someone has to stay with Gus."

"Ah, well, I suppose he did at that. Although I don't think he expected he'd be the one chosen to accompany Gus." Verinder looked out the window.

"I couldn't go with Gus – I have to follow up on my lead, tenuous as it is. Even Brennan has to have enough sense to see that."

"Perhaps." Verinder faced him. "Mr. Lumiere, who is this Dr. Nullus, and just how dangerous is he?"

Sampson sighed. "He was my late father's best friend. He's a brilliant scientist but very eccentric, very singular in his approach to the world. My father's death unhinged him a bit, but even before that incident, he was unpredictable at best. He has a cruel streak in him."

"I see." Verinder pursed his lips. "Are you certain there's no one else we can ask?"

"Yes. There might be others who know more about one thing or another, but Nullus is extraordinary." Sampson looked out the window.

The cab slowed.

Verinder moved to the edge of the seat. "Perhaps I should accompany you."

Sampson shook his head. "No, it's better if I go alone. He'd spend his time trying to bait you."

"Very well." Verinder did not look happy. "But if you're not back in half an hour, I will come for you."

Sampson nodded, acknowledging the support. He was glad for the words of comfort, but he knew if Nullus set his mind to it, Verinder would never come in time.

He walked through the university halls, remembering fondly the days when his father had worked there. He found Nullus in the same corner office he had always had, speaking in a very lively fashion to a student, or perhaps another instructor. His feet were propped up on his desk, and he was smoking a pipe. He paused when he saw Sampson and sat up.

"Well, I do believe that is Mr. Lumiere. Come in, come in!" He dismissed the other man with a wave.

Sampson entered the room and shut the door behind him. The shelving behind Nullus contained jars of internal body parts and disfigured fetuses. On the top shelf was a taxidermy goat with two heads. In the corner, a fully assembled skeleton grinned at Sampson.

Dr. Nullus gave him a knowing smile and said, "So, your appearance must mean that you've finally forgiven me."

"Hardly. And it's safe to say I never will."

Nullus _tch_ ed at him. "Well, no matter. Please sit down and tell me how you've been."

Sampson dropped the small packet of powder he'd found at the chemist's shop on Nullus's desk. "Can you tell me anything about that?"

"Succinct as ever, I see." Nullus poked at the paper with his pipe. "I'm afraid I'll need a bit more information. Inside the packet is a powder, I presume?"

"Yes." Sampson sat down and drew out his cigarette tin. "I believe that powder might be partially responsible for a strange series of events I'm investigating."

Nullus raised an eyebrow at him. "How so?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm here." Sampson lit his cigarette.

"Lately there's been a wealth of information on new potions. I myself am experimenting with a few – one that's supposed to make flesh, bone, and blood invisible." Nullus tapped the dead ash out of his pipe and reloaded. "What things I could do if I could only perfect that!"

"Nullus –"

"Oh, very well. You never were interested in science."

"Science?" Sampson rolled his eyes.

Nullus lit his pipe. "Perhaps you should give me some background on these strange events."

Sampson hadn't wanted to have this conversation with Nullus. Part of him still suspected Nullus might actually have something to do with it, directly or indirectly.

"Would you care for some tea?" Nullus's grin was shockingly similar to the skeleton's.

"No." Sampson shook his head. "Not after last time."

"Oh, do stop fooling yourself, Sampson. You did enjoy yourself quite thoroughly last time."

"No," Sampson repeated, gritting his teeth at Nullus's over-familiarity. "No, tea."

"Pity." After puffing his pipe to life, Nullus leaned back in his chair. "Well, since you won't tell me the background, perhaps I'll give you my educated guess, and you can tell me if I waver from the mark. How's that, then?"

"Fine."

"You're investigating the Spring-heeled Jack killings, correct?"

Sampson made a disagreeable noise. "I don't call it that, but yes."

"Ah! So you don't believe you're dealing with a demon? Quite right. Rather sensational nonsense that demon prattle sounds like something straight from a penny dreadful." Nullus turned his head ever so slightly and studied Sampson. "But I would venture to say you've _seen_ what this so called Spring-heeled Jack can do with that little trick you've got, correct? The one where you touch the dead and see images?"

Sampson's skin prickled. He had never told Nullus about his visions, but he was frighteningly observant. "Yes."

Nullus sat up again, his back straight and his features intent. "Oh, capital! I believe you might even have suspicions about who it is!"

"No, not exactly, but I can tell you – without hesitation – that what I've seen, the aftermath anyway, isn't brought on by weapons of any sort. It's not a disguise. The ears, the teeth, the claws, the eyes, they were all very much a part of ... the creature."

"Creature." Nullus scratched his nose. "You have questions, Sampson. That's why you're here in desperate need, seeking your last recourse. It all sounds terribly romantic, doesn't it? Maybe I should write penny dreadfuls."

The room was heavy with silence.

Nullus leaned over his desk and said very quietly, "So ask, my dear Sampson, what can poor Ulysses Nullus do to help?"

Sampson looked at the packet feeling very much as if he was about to embark on a Faustian agreement. "Is it possible to change a man into something else? A temporary change?"

Nullus blinked. "So let me have a clear understanding. Are you are proposing that the Spring-heeled Jack character is a regular man who is changed by whatever is in this packet? What a fascinating idea, Sampson! I believe your excellent father would be very pleased with your open-minded approach to this subject."

"You know your flatteries don't work on me, Nullus." Sampson was growing angrier with every moment. "Is it possible? And once it's done, can it be reversed?"

Chewing on the end of his pipe Nullus smiled. "I'll own that you've brought me a very interesting problem, lad, but one that will require some thought." He tapped the packet. "And some analysis."

"What about theoretically?"

"Ah. Well, there was a Dr. Stevenson in Scotland who had some very interesting theories about this very subject. I'm afraid he met some sort of very strange end while attempting to prove one. Upon the last meeting with his friends, he declared he had solved all the problems for transforming a man into a beast. Shortly after that, he simply disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Yes, well, there was some sort of monkey-like creature in his lab, but no Dr. Stevenson." Nullus puffed on his pipe and allowed the smoke to wreath about his head. "Curious story, isn't it?"

"Yes." Sampson looked into the dark eyes of Ulysses Nullus. "You didn't happen to be in Scotland at the time, did you?"

"Me?" Nullus threw back his head and laughed heartily. "No, not that time. I was firmly ensconced here and was teaching a rather lively series of courses in anatomy."

"Anatomy. Yes, I wanted to ask you about that as well."

"Oh, yes?"

Sampson nodded. "How are you set up for cadavers these days?"

"Very well, thank you. The population has been very generous of late." Nullus propped his chin on his upraised hand. "Whatever for? Don't tell me you have some bodies you'd like to donate to medical science?"

Sampson ignored the bait. "There's been a lot of body-snatching of late."

"Oh. Well you know my policies."

Nullus didn't ask questions about where the cadavers came from. None of the schools did, not if they wanted a steady supply.

Nullus exhaled a puff of smoke. "You think the crimes are related."

"Not for certain. But the killings seem to coincide with body-snatching and burglaries." Sampson pulled out his notebook and turned to the symbol. "Tell me, have you ever seen this before?"

Nullus leaned forward and looked and the symbol. "So you feel this symbol links the crimes." Nullus shook his head in disgust. "They are shamefully sloppy in their misrepresentation. Ah! People no longer take pride in their work, Sampson."

"And by people, you mean criminals."

"Obviously, in this case," Nullus said dismissively.

"Then, you know this mark?"

"Yes." Nullus puffed on his pipe. "I can tell you it has nothing to do with demons."

"You know that for a fact?"

"Of course."

"What else can you tell me about it?"

"Oh, nothing, I'm afraid." Nullus's dark eyes were unreadable.

Sampson could not tell if Nullus was teasing him or not. He suspected he did not want to know. He stood up.

"Next time you should bring Mr. Verinder to meet me."

"Let me know what you find out about the powder."

Smiling around the stem of his pipe, Nullus said, "I'll see what I can do for you."

Sampson nodded and stepped out of the office.

As the door to the office closed Nullus said, "But you'll owe me a favor, Mr. Lumiere."

Sampson was certain the price for Nullus's knowledge would be far too high, but if he was lucky, it might save Gus's life.


	11. Clever to a Fault

Chapter 11  
 _Clever to a Fault_

 

When Sampson left Nullus, the coal-stained sky was turning a darker shade of gray. Sampson gave the cabbie directions to the White Eagle and rejoined Verinder in the cab.

"You look unscathed," Verinder said with obvious relief.

"For the moment."

"He's helping?"

"In his fashion, I suppose he is. He recognized the symbol but he feels as if it is being misused. That's all he would tell me about it."

Verinder looked thoughtful. "How would he know that?"

"It's no secret that Nullus does have access to a more unsavory layer of society. Knowing facts like that is not outside the realm of possibility for him."

"Then you believe him?"

Sampson nearly laughed. "Long ago I learned to never take Nullus at his word. It can lead to very unfortunate circumstances. I'll hold my opinion until I hear from him."

"Well, then perhaps this Mr. Banks you've mentioned will be able to help us more?"

"Possibly. He's an oddity and talks in circles at times, but he knows most of the unsavory details of the East End." Sampson chewed on his cheek. "Zoltán tried to sell the lapel pin to someone – someone who traffics in stolen goods, I suspect. But when the man recognized the symbol, he wouldn't purchase the gold."

"Yes, that appears to be a common theme. You suspect Mr. Banks might be able to shed light on the symbol?"

"He's as good a place to start as any." The cab slowed and Sampson looked out the window. "This is the place."

"Hmm." Verinder stared at the building. "The White Eagle."

"You know it?" Sampson couldn't hide his surprise. Verinder didn't strike Sampson as the type who would spend his evenings in East End public houses.

"Brennan frequents this place," was the extent of Verinder's answer.

"Should he have been the one to come with me?"

Verinder made a dismissive noise as they stepped through the doorway. "If drinking, gambling, and flirtatious behavior is what you're seeking, then by all means, he is your man."

Sampson glanced over, seeing a dark change in Verinder's countenance. Apparently, public houses were some point of dispute between Verinder and Brennan. However, Sampson found that he really did not care enough to pry further into their relationship. He had his own to annoy him.

"Mr. Lumiere! Back so soon?"

"Hello, Tom."

"Can I get you a beer?"

"Yes."

Tom poured him a beer and tipped his head toward Verinder. "And for your friend?"

"The same, thank you," Verinder said.

"Are you here about Zoltán?" Tom made a clucking noise and shook his head as he set Sampson's beer down. "Bad business, that."

Sampson stuck a match on the bar to light a cigarette.

"Turns out he wasn't lying about seeing that Spring-heeled Jack killer." Tom's eye and cheek twitched.

Sampson watched Tom closely. "I was hoping to speak with Banks."

"Banks? He should be in soon, knowing him. But that man's even more out of his senses than Zoltán. You can't believe anything he says."

"Does he have stories about seeing Spring-heeled Jack, too?"

"No. His stories are much more fanciful – about secret societies and all that." Tom turned around with Verinder's beer.

Sampson pulled out his notebook and turned the pages to the mysterious symbol. "Tom, have you ever seen this mark before?"

The beer in Verinder's glass sloshed over one side as Tom set it down. His cheek twitched again as he said, "No sir, never seen it." He looked over the nearly empty room. "I'll need to check something in the back, sir." He hurried away.

"Well, you certainly made him nervous." Verinder took a drink of his beer and then frowned at it.

"Yes."

One of the Mollys – the overly friendly one with brown hair – came by. "Molly, do you know where Mr. Banks lives?"

"No need, love." She touched Sampson's arm. "He just came in."

"Thank you." He pulled away and handed her some coins. "Can you bring Mr. Banks a couple of pints?"

"Of course, sir." She gave Sampson a wink. "Anything for you."

Sampson sighed heavily and turned for the back of the room, finding Banks sitting at a rickety table.

As they walked toward Banks, Verinder said, "She was very friendly. You seem very popular here."

Sampson ignored him, his focus squarely on Banks. Banks was a funny man, tall and long-limbed, looking as though he hadn't had a meal in years. He had few teeth, a nose that had been badly broken, one eye that looked away of its own accord, and was missing part of an ear. His mind had a tendency to wander, but he lived as one with the streets, seeing and hearing every detail.

"Hello, Mr. Banks," Sampson said as he sat down.

"As I live and breathe, if it isn't the intrepid inspector Lumiere," Banks greeted Sampson with or without a look – it could be a fine definition with that wandering eye.

Sampson nodded at Verinder. "And this is Inspector Verinder."

"Verinder. I've heard of your many virtues from that Brennan fellow." Mr. Banks smiled. Verinder looked uncomfortable.

"The days have become strange, Mr. Lumiere. Friends have become frightened and withdrawn, suspicious and untrusting."

"Murders have a way of doing that, Banks."

Molly appeared at the table with the beer.

Mr. Banks nodded at the beer. "Well, this is a promising beginning to my night. Now, what questions do you have for me?"

Sampson pulled out his notebook with the symbol. "All of my questions seem to revolve around this."

"Ah, I suspected one of you inspectors would get around to this eventually. I've seen this mark, many times now." He took a long quaff from his glass. "It's bad luck. It's a curse. A mark of the Hellfire Club."

Verinder started. "The Hellfire Club? But it was disbanded ages ago."

"And Spring-heeled Jack is a myth, Mr. Verinder." Banks picked up his beer glass and looked at them both. "Evil always finds a way to be reborn."

"Are you saying the two, this Hellfire Club and Spring-heeled Jack, are connected?"

Banks looked at the bar. "Did you ask Tom about the mark?"

Sampson followed his gaze. Tom was glowering at them. "Yes."

"And he wouldn't answer."

"Yes."

"I expect he'll demand I vacate the Eagle after your departure." Banks sighed. "As I said, suspicion is everywhere."

"How does this affect Tom?"

"They're connected. The murders were threats. Even Zoltán's."

"Connected to this Hellfire Club? Or connected to each other?" Sampson was losing patience.

"Do you have a cigarette?"

Sampson tried not to show his annoyance as he searched for his cigarette case. He knew from experience that Banks did not respond well to anger. He would withdraw and not speak at all. Banks was irritatingly vague and very likely mad, but he was all Sampson had at the moment.

"Mr. Banks," Verinder said softly. "Could you tell me, if I were to ask Mr. Barclay – the green grocer down the street – about the mark, would he tell me about it?"

"No, sir," Mr. Banks was watching Sampson remove his cigarette case. "He most certainly wouldn't."

There was just a hint of excitement in Verinder's voice. "But you believe he would recognize the mark?"

Sampson opened the silver case and paused, his fingers hovering over his cigarettes. "Mr. Banks? Mr. Verinder asked you a question."

"Aye, Mr. Barclay would recognize it, but he would say naught."

Sampson handed him two cigarettes and took one for himself. As he pulled out his matches, he tipped his head towards Verinder.

"Why wouldn't he say?"

"Fear. The fear of Spring-heeled Jack making a visit on his kin."

Sampson struck his match and offered the light to Banks. "Let me see if I can guess the rest. This Hellfire Club offers protection from Spring-heeled Jack, for a price."

Banks's gaze became sharp and clear. "You are a credit, Mr. Lumiere."

"But how?" Verinder asked. "How can they control something that supposedly isn't human?"

Sampson made an exasperated sound.

Verinder raised an eyebrow, "Then, you feel the murderer is human?"

Sampson passed Mr. Banks several coins. "If you hear more about the Hellfire Club or Spring-heeled Jack, send me word."

"Aye, Mr. Lumiere." Mr. Banks pocketed the money.

"Mr. Banks, why aren't you afraid for you safety?" Verinder pushed his almost-full beer toward Mr. Banks.

"Who said I'm not afraid?" Mr. Banks gave them a nearly toothless smile.

"You know how to get in touch with me, Mr. Banks." Sampson emptied his glass and stood up.

As he walked toward the door, Verinder caught up with him. "What are your plans?"

"I think I want to check on Gus," Sampson said as he stepped outside. "And luckily, our cab is still out –"

"Inspector Lumiere! Inspector Verinder!" An out-of-breath constable ran up to meet them. Between his ragged breaths he gasped out, "Spring-heeled Jack killed another one."

 

The address the constable had given him was an old, crumbling warehouse in the dodgiest part of the East End. Sampson got out of the cab with Verinder right behind him.

"Not many civilians here," Verinder said.

"There's not much in this part of town." Sampson looked at the handful of constables and braced himself. He would have to go inside soon.

Another cab turned onto the street. Verinder watched the cab as it slowed. "Now, who can that be?"

The door flew open and Brennan jumped out. He was alone.

Sampson's chest constricted. "Brennan! What the hell are you doing here? And where is Gus?"

Brennan closed the distance between them. "He's supposed to be here."

"Here?" Sampson took a step and grabbed Brennan's coat with both hands. "Do you have any idea what you're saying?"

Brennan shook his head. "The bloody little sod outsmarted me. When I see him again I'll –"

"You'll what?! How could you let him out of your sight?" Sampson shook him and then raised a fist, ready to strike. "You damned, useless fool!"

Verinder grabbed Sampson's wrist. "That's enough, Lumiere. Pull yourself together." He pulled Sampson away. "Now tell us what happened, Brennan."

Brennan nodded, clearly confused by the events and Sampson's attack. "He was making deliveries, just like he wanted to. And on the last stop – Mrs. Clay – he told me a story about how shy she was and didn't like people in her home. He asked me to stay outside and wait. But he never came back."

"Someone took him?" Sampson's heart was beating rapidly.

"No. After I waited long enough, I knocked on the old lady's door. She wasn't shy about people at all! And she told me that Gus had gone out her window." Brennan rubbed his head. "Why would he do that?"

Sampson felt as if he was walking in a dream – no, a nightmare.

"Why do you think he's here, Brennan?" Verinder's voice was calm.

"I went back to the shop and searched through the orders he was working on. I found this note." Brennan reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. He held it out to Sampson. "It's for you, but I read it."

Sampson took the note but didn't open it.

"Tell us," Verinder prompted.

"He wrote that he'd found a different note when he arrived. It was a threat. It told him if he didn't come to this address, Mr. Ford would die." Brennan exhaled. "The bloody imbecile, why didn't he tell me?"

Sampson was clutching the note. He turned toward the building.

"But why are you two here?"

"There's been another murder." Verinder's voice was even, eerily composed. "We haven't been inside yet to see who it is."

"Good God! But –"

Sampson walked, leaving them behind as he entered the building, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. The smell of blood was so thick he could almost taste it, and his twisting stomach clenched. He took a step toward the corner of the large room. He could see a lump, something that had once been a living, breathing man, but now was only spoiled meat. Even though his feet felt like they were made of lead, he kept walking.

The figure was wearing a brown coat. Beneath it, blood had soaked into the thirsty wood, staining it a deep rust color. An arm lay straight out from the body – bloody and covered with bites. He almost stopped, but he knew he couldn't.

The lump became a man, and with each step closer, Sampson could see more details. Whoever it was had died on his back, but his head had been twisted around, his neck clearly broken. In the low light of the room, Sampson knew the man had brown hair and a body of small stature.

Sampson's shallow breathing was all he could hear as he circled the body. He stopped when he saw the angle of the man's face.

"Who is it, lad?" Godfrey's voice behind him was thin and faint. Sampson hadn't even been aware that Godfrey had arrived.

Sampson knelt by the body and then looked up. Godfrey, Brennan, and Verinder were watching him with pale expressions of worry. He finally remembered to breathe. "It's not Gus. It's Mr. Ford." Sampson touched him, closing his wide, staring eyes.

He saw flashes of three men; Sampson was certain one might have been Frogman. He also saw the Hellfire lapel pins, a silver bell ringing, a ferociously attacking beast, and a screaming Gus. Mr. Ford was filled with unbearable sorrow, not fear, when the beast took his life.

Sampson inhaled as if he'd been underwater for too long. He rubbed his aching head, noting that his eyes were wet. He craved laudanum and wanted Gus to be at his side. His crushing worry was an eerie match to Mr. Ford's despair.

"What did you see?"

"Gus is alive. For now." He could feel himself start to shake. "I need to look for him."

"For now, I'll take you home." Godfrey shouted simple commands that Sampson was having trouble understanding.

"Come on, lad." Godfrey said as he took Sampson's arm to help him to the carriage.

Sampson shook him off and walked past a worried Verinder and Brennan. He climbed inside the coach and slumped against a corner, rubbing his temples.

Godfrey tapped on the roof and the carriage started to move. After a few minutes he said, "You should came back to my house."

"No. My place."

"Very well, if you're certain." Godfrey didn't even argue. "What will you do next?"

Sampson felt so tired. "I don't know. I have to find him, Godfrey. I have to find him."

"I know."

He was starting to drift, feeling detached and helpless. Then next thing he knew, Godfrey was helping him up the stairs and into his bed.

That night he took excessive amounts of laudanum with too much absinthe, and still sleep eluded him. Each time he closed his eyes, he could only see Gus's features twisted in anguish.


	12. Upon My Honor

Chapter 12  
 _Upon My Honor_

 

Sampson was on his second glass of gin at the third public house he had visited that evening. At places he had previously been welcome in, he was now treated with suspicion and silence. The whole of Whitechapel seemed to have resigned itself to an uneasy wariness. This would be his third night in the East End, sleeping in one of Mr. York's questionable residences when he did sleep. That was not often.

He found it simple, reverting to his old habits. He had taken to wandering the dangerous streets in the dark, searching for anything that might give him a clue about Gus. He even hoped for an encounter with the murderer, just to give him something useful to do before he went mad.

The afternoon after Gus's disappearance and the announcement of Mr. Ford's death, Mr. Smith showed up at Sampson's room. He had been entrusted with Mr. Ford's will, and the majority of his limited fortune and the ownership of the shop fell to Nathaniel, with a provision that Gus be looked after and kept on at the shop. However, if Nathaniel were not to be located, then all would fall to Gus.

Sampson was a bit disappointed. He had hoped Mr. Smith's secret had been about Nathaniel's location, but that information remained frustratingly out of reach.

So he haunted the East End at night; it seemed the only logical course of action. He was aware he was followed from time to time by the bumbling Brennan and the stealthy Verinder, but he remained out of their grasp. Had there been news to hear, chances were better he would hear it on the streets before it filtered through the police department's ranks of administrative tyranny.

"Good God," a snide voice said from over Sampson's shoulder. "As a whole, I find it difficult to believe the average Metropolitan Police officer can find his arse with both hands, much less solve crimes."

Dr. Ulysses Nullus fell into a chair next to Sampson's and set a glass and bottle of gin on the table. "Oh, my, you look positively ill, my dear Sampson. Back on the laudanum, are you?" Nullus clucked his tongue with disapproval as he poured himself some gin. "You take your job far too much to heart. Not like those other layabouts. No one could tell me where you were! I checked your room first and then, of course, the glorious home of Mr. Godfrey, but to no avail."

As Sampson pulled out his cigarette case, he wondered how Nullus had "checked" his room. Not through the front entrance, he would wager.

"Then I went to the station to ask about you – and they ran about like headless chickens. Some criminal investigators they are." Nullus drained his glass of gin and grimaced. "In the end I had to count on my own intellect to find you. It wasn't terribly taxing, knowing your habits as I do."

Sampson struck a match and was horrified to realize he was happy to see Nullus. "Do you have news for me?"

"Did you know there are two men watching you?" Nullus poured another glass and filled Sampson's as well.

"Yes."

"Ah, Godfrey's doing, is it?"

"Nullus –"

"Yes, yes. You always were the ever-impatient Sampson." Nullus tipped his head towards Sampson's glass. "Drink."

Sampson eyed the glass warily but drank it all in one swallow. "Now speak."

"The potion does do what you suspected. It causes physiological changes in the body: sharp claws and teeth, pointed ears and the like. Remarkable."

"Is it permanent?"

Nullus pulled out his pipe. "So far, yes. But I have a few very knowledgeable scientists helping me with a potion of reversal. I am confident I will have a solution for you soon."

Sampson did his best not to consider what poor sod might be the test subject for Nullus. Right now he didn't have the luxury of caring about another human. "But if it can turn men into beasts, how would they control them?"

Nullus laughed, it was a disconcerting sound and full of condescension. "You should know the answer to that, my dear, sweet Sampson. A simple potion or even hypnotism will take care of that. It wouldn't keep them under control every waking minute. I suspect they must be keeping your poor Spring-heeled Jack devil caged up somewhere."

Sampson carefully poured himself another glass of gin. "If you don't have a solution, why are you here?"

"Ah! You are a credit!" Nullus lit his pipe. "I have been asked to deliver a proposition to you."

"Have you?" Sampson did not like the sound of this.

"I deal with certain ... factions ... within society. For the most part, they are casual acquaintances. But some are very powerful – wheels within wheels, if you take my meaning."

"Powerful criminals above the law. Wealthy gentlemen, in other words."

"A crass but succinct description."

"And?"

"They seemed to have taken exception to the use of their club's name."

Sampson _tch_ ed.

"They wanted me to extend the olive branch to you."

"How?"

"Even as we sit drinking this barely tolerable swill, they leave no stone unturned looking for these cutthroats of yours. But they agree that at this point, the city needs reassurance of the murderers' apprehension. If they find the lair of this poor imitation of the Hellfire Club, they would like you to take care of it."

"Clean up the mess, in other words."

"Well, yes. But think about it, Sampson." Nullus drained his second glass. "They have resources you can't even imagine; they get things done quickly. They will find the men, if they haven't already."

Sampson swirled the gin in his glass, thinking. If he did not accept, someone else would be given the task. If Gus was still alive, Sampson did not give a damn about improper channels; he wanted to be the first there. Still, it was wise to remain cautious.

"What do you get out of it, Nullus?"

"Me?" Nullus blinked in surprise. "I thought that would be obvious. I want to go with you and see this creature. Maybe I can take him back to the lab with me to see if I can fix him."

"And that's all?"

Nullus grinned. "Upon my honor."


	13. The Mark of the Beast

Chapter 13  
 _The Mark of the Beast_

 

Sampson's footsteps seemed overly loud as he walked the empty byways of Whitechapel. Since he had left the public house where there was so much laughter and drink, a feeling of being watched had consumed him. He thought it might have something to do Nullus, but whatever the reason, he felt exposed and vulnerable. It was not a feeling he had experienced before, and he began to rethink his solitary journey through the alleyways of the East End. He had hoped the walk would help clear his head and give him insight, but now he was realizing how isolated he was.

Changing direction, he lengthened his steps and walked purposefully, hoping he was heading toward the more populated part of Whitechapel. But after several minutes, all he could see was more of the same, and he was beginning to suspect he'd taken a wrong turn. Being lost in the East End at night seldom resulted in a happy ending. He stopped at a crossing and looked up and down the streets. They looked the same – dark and deserted – the only light source from the occasional candle or lantern courtesy of the surrounding rooms.

"Blast." He was patting his pockets, searching for cigarettes, when he heard a soft thump behind him. There was a blur of movement to his right. He didn't turn, but he moved his hand from his cigarette case to his revolver and pulled it from his coat.

Removing the pistol and preparing himself he said, "Show yourself."

Something landed in front of him. He raised his revolver and pointed it at the newcomer. Crouched not two steps away was the famous creature he had seen in his visions. It had wild hair, pointed ears, long claws, sharp teeth, and glowing eyes. Sampson thought it more reminiscent of the monkeys he had seen in circus sideshows than a demon.

In the span of a few heartbeats, he made a decision. The thing in front of him most probably had been – at one time – Nathaniel Ford, but Sampson had seen the end result of a meeting with this creature. Only one of them would come out of this confrontation alive. He closed one eye to get the best line on his target; his revolver did have a mind of its own sometimes. He hoped Gus could forgive him as he held his breath and squeezed the trigger.

The creature jumped and his shot went wide. With dazzling speed, the beast darted in and knocked Sampson's revolver from his hand. Then the thing disappeared, moving too quickly for Sampson to follow. Around him, the gun's report lingered, echoing through the surrounding brick walls and stone covered streets. The few lamps and candles in household windows began to blink out, plunging the street further into gloomy night.

"Cowards," Sampson hissed, counting himself amongst them. He didn't bother to search for his revolver; instead, he ran – tried to run, but something snagged his coat. Fabric tore as he wriggled his arms free of the overcoat and kept running. He made it about six steps before his ankle was grabbed and he fell, skidding across the rough cobblestones, his clothing shredding and skin abrading beneath him. For a moment, he couldn't suppress the image of a cat playing with a mouse. He threw himself over and onto his back, walking backwards on hands and feet while frantically seeking shelter. Around him he could hear a rumbling growl, a sound that seemed to come from every direction at once.

Then the creature was on him, throwing him flat onto his back. The thing howled in triumph, showing a mouthful of teeth. Sampson's heart was hammering in his chest, and he knew there was no way out of his predicament.

And yet, the thought of being bested by a monkey made Sampson more angry than afraid. As his fear burned away, he reached up and, with one tremendous push, tried to dislodge the creature. The monkey deftly snagged Sampson's hands and pinned them over his head. The maneuver shocked Sampson; holding him down was not something a mindless beast would do: this thing still contained a modicum of intelligence. Maybe it could be reasoned with.

But beyond his feelings of anger and helplessness, Sampson also felt a flicker of something he didn't expect. There was something decidedly familiar about this monkey-like being. His throat was dry and his voice was rough when he asked, "You're not Nathaniel Ford. Who are you?"

The constant growl dropped to something less threatening, a low, rolling murmur. The creature dripped his head and nuzzled at the raw skin beneath Sampson's tattered shirt, inhaling his scent.

"What are you –" Sampson hissed as sharp teeth sank deep into his exposed neck. Confusion tangled his thoughts further when his attacker licked at the bite and then rocked against him. Hard flesh dug into Sampson's hip.

"Stop," Sampson panted as he attempted to squirm away. He was alarmed at his body's response to the creature rubbing against him. This should not be happening; he should be dead like the others who had encountered this animal, not tolerating the unacceptable physical intimacy. And yet, its touch was so hauntingly familiar, he thought he might have simply slipped into madness.

One deadly hand pressed flat against Sampson's chest with a warm, gentle caress. He groaned when teeth scraped against the torn skin at his neck. In his fuzzy mind he made the disturbing, heartbreaking connections and stared at the changed man above him.

"Gus," he managed to say. As he relaxed, his hands were suddenly free. Without being in charge of his senses, he found himself touching one hairless cheek, following the high bone structure to the pointy ear. Gus's golden eyes closed in obvious pleasure. It was such a simple action, yet was so like Gus, Sampson's throat threatened to close with emotion.

"You bloody fool."

Gus made the murmuring sound again and rubbed against Sampson. The intimate caress made Sampson's body hot and the sudden ache in his groin bordered on searing pain. And when Sampson raised his hips, dragging his own erection against Gus's, there was a quiet rumble of approval.

Sampson pulled Gus close. Gus's change did not matter; Sampson wanted one more shared encounter, one more moment of fulfilling his desire with Gus. He moved his legs, allowing Gus better access as they rocked together.

Their pace accelerated and Sampson could feel the tingle coiling in his belly. Convinced he'd lost all of his senses, Sampson grabbed Gus's arse and pushed up, grinding into him, shuddering with his release. Seconds later, Gus threw back his head and groaned, long hair spilling over Sampson's bloodied and sweat-covered body as they finished the final thrusts of their strange coupling.

Sampson was panting and his vision was returning to normal when he heard footsteps approaching. Gus growled low in his throat.

"You there!" A voice shouted from down the alleyway. A whistle sounded and Gus leapt to his feet to face the new threat.

"Run, you fool." Sampson whispered. "If they catch you they'll kill you."

But Gus paused, tilting his head as if listening.

Sampson willed his breathing to quiet as he strained his ears over the oncoming chaos of his would-be rescuers. In the distance, he could hear the soft ringing of a bell.

The Gus-creature's body tensed; Sampson knew he was coiling for a leap.

"Gus," he said, his voice low, hoping the oncoming constables did not hear. He struggled to his feet, blocking the Bobbies' line of sight. "Where do they call you to? I want to help you."

Gus's head turned again, this time to stare at him. Sampson nearly staggered under the intensity of the gaze: anger and resignation mixed with despair.

Then Gus jumped, leaping from the ground to a window ledge to a roof, only to disappear into the night.

"Blast it, you stupid monkey!" Sampson hissed quietly.

"Inspector Lumiere, is that you? Are you well?" a constable asked when he stopped next to Sampson. Behind them, more men were joining the group, a few with lanterns.

"Yes, I'm well." Sampson tore his eyes from the empty rooftop. "One of you with the lanterns, help me find my pistol and my coat."

Within minutes, Sampson was striking a match and inhaling the taste of good tobacco. He was sitting on a vegetable crate, uncomfortable with sticky mess in his pants and lamenting the sorry condition of his coat when he was joined by two more people.

"Good God, man, you're covered in blood!" Brennan said. "And look at your clothes!"

Brennan was a master at stating the obvious; Lumiere had to give him that.

"An encounter with Spring-heeled Jack, I assume," Verinder added. His nose gave a decided wrinkle as he sniffed.

Sampson exhaled a wreath of smoke and gave a lazy nod. In spite of a night full of excitement, he was remarkably relaxed. "There was no intent to kill me."

"Indeed?" Verinder studied the tatters of his coat. "And why do you say that?"

Now, Verinder was another problem, he was far too clever. Given enough time and evidence, he would probably piece it together. What would that mean for unfortunate Gus?

"No intent? Look at yourself, sporting the mark of the beast, as it were." Brennan leaned close studying the bite. "But I do wonder why you're still alive, when nearly everyone else has been killed. Is it simply luck?"

Sampson tugged the shredded remains of his clothing over the aching wound. He understood that Brennan and Verinder expected some sort of explanation, so he opted for the simple truth. "I believe the intention was to delay me, not kill me."

Verinder studied him. "I see. Well, the creature, or whatever it is, has been used as a decoy before. "

"Ah, there you are, lad!" Godfrey was out of breath. "When I received word, I feared for your life. Now even you must agree that your solitary existence of late has been dangerous. Wouldn't you say, Inspector Verinder?"

"Yes, Chief Inspector, I would." Verinder agreed. "I'm rather curious about that myself. Why have you been so isolated, Inspector Lumiere?"

Sampson shrugged. The pain from his bite was phenomenal. "I was following possible leads. I'm not unfamiliar with the East End. Besides, there is some very particular whiskey I enjoy here."

"You're speaking of the White Eagle, aren't you?" Brennan winked at him. "They do serve some fine-tasting whiskey – and other pleasantries – there, right? You know that's wh –"

"Brennan," was all Verinder, said and Brennan fell silent. He faced Sampson again and said very softly, "We've been trying to catch up with you to tell you that last night there were two sightings of Spring-heeled Jack at the same time."

"Do we have a copy-cat, now?" Godfrey said.

Sampson knew there was no copy-cat.

Brennan shook his head. "Not according to my ... sources. I think there's two, now."

"I see." Godfrey frowned and rubbed his chin. "I believe we should try to keep that information to ourselves for as long as possible. There's already enough grumbling about immediate action. If this got out, who knows what would happen next."

Brennan snorted. "Something ridiculous, I'm certain."

"Well, come on, my lad, you can tell me about your encounter on the carriage ride back to your flat." Godfrey motioned his arm down the street. "I don't think there's anything else to see here tonight, lads, so go on about your business. And Brennan and Verinder, good work. You two should try and get some sleep now."

"Aye, sir."

Sampson walked silently next to Godfrey, but internally he was fuming. Once they were inside the coach with the door closed he asked, "Why are you having Brennan and Verinder watch me?"

"Watch you? Now, why would I do that, I wonder?"

"Don't insult me, Godfrey."

Godfrey crossed his legs. "I didn't ask them. They asked me. Since their primary duty at the moment is in the East End, I saw no reason to discourage them. Verinder suspects you might become a target in these so-called Spring-heeled Jack murders, and I must say I agree with him. I believe you are too close to uncovering the source, Mr. Lumiere." Godfrey reached across the seat and opened Sampson's collar. He studied the bite before he continued, "Why you're still alive is a mystery, but a mystery I think you've already solved."

Sampson bit back his prepared denial and closed his mouth. "Huh."

"I want you to stay at my house tonight. Those bites look nasty, and Thomas is good at tending wounds. Very discreet." He smiled at Sampson.

"And your house is safer." The bite was radiating a burning pain now, and Sampson really wanted nothing more than to sleep.

"Yes."

"That's fine."

"You're awfully calm, my lad." Godfrey watched him. "What do you know?"

Sampson shrugged. "I have a lead I expect to hear from soon."

"A lead? How in Heaven did you get that?"

"Not Heaven." Sampson looked out the window. "I made a pact with the devil himself."


	14. The Events at the Warehouse

Chapter 14  
 _The Events at the Warehouse_

 

"Are you certain this is it? It doesn't look like much," Brennan said as he looked over the old warehouse.

Sampson had to agree – the building didn't differ from the fifteen or twenty other warehouses lining the street. They were near the Thames in a district that seemed to have been forgot by all of London: crumbling, worn-out structures served as perfect lairs for seedier happenings. The only difference was the big lock they'd found on this building's door.

But Sampson knew this was it. Early that morning, as he tended his bites and bruises, he had received a letter with the post. The entire contents of the letter had contained this address, a time of ten P.M., and Nullus's initials.

Sampson had understood he would need help; he did not wish to face an enemy with Nullus as his only assistance. That did seem very much like tempting fate. So, with Godfrey's help, he had tracked down Verinder and Brennan at home – unsurprised to find that they shared a dwelling. He had reluctantly confided in them about Gus and his encounter with Nullus.

They had immediately agreed to help him. It had been a generous move that made him feel both touched and irritated. But then again, that was his normal reaction to generosity.

"Where's your doctor friend?" Brennan said.

It was now just after ten, but Nullus was nowhere to be seen. "Not here, and I think we might be better for it."

"I think – yes, that's got it," Verinder said softly as the large padlock came open.

Sampson raised an eyebrow at Verinder's nimble lock-picking skills but didn't say anything. Sampson had learned long ago that hidden talents were better when they remained hidden.

In spite of the building having every indication of being abandoned except for the lock, the oversized door was well oiled and opened with little noise. Inside was nothing but inky blackness as the three slipped through the door and closed it behind them.

Brennan lit a lantern and Sampson blinked furiously, getting his eyes acclimated to the light.

"As the door was locked, I think we can assume there is no one here currently." Verinder peered beyond the circle of light from Brennan's lantern.

"Unless there are prisoners." Brennan shivered. "Do you feel like we're being watched?" he asked Verinder.

"That's your imagination."

Sampson exhaled impatiently and motioned for Brennan to proceed.

"I don't remember agreeing to head this expedition," Brennan complained.

"But you have the lantern," Verinder explained.

"I have my revolver," Sampson added, reaching into the pocket of Godfrey's loaned coat and withdrawing his pistol.

Brennan sighed but kept walking. The bobbing lantern made their shadows elongate and shorten as they made their way down a narrow hallway. It reminded Sampson of the fateful night at the chemist's shop. He hoped this night would have a better outcome.

They came to an open door on their right and stepped inside. There was little to see but for a table with a few empty beer and gin bottles, overflowing ashtrays, some playing cards, and a small wooden box.

"They seem to keep themselves busy," Verinder said.

Sampson opened the box. Inside, there were two silver bells, both decorated with elaborate runes. Also inside were several small white packets, like the one he'd given Nullus for examination.

"What do the marks on the packets signify?" Brennan said from over his shoulder.

Sampson narrowed his eyes. Brennan was correct. Each packet appeared to be labeled, but as Sampson sorted through them, he only found two differing marks, arcane symbols he couldn't decipher.

"And look at the bells;, they aren't the same size. I wonder if that has any special meaning – maybe they direct those under the powder's influence to do different things." Verinder furrowed his brow, clearly guessing.

Sampson handed him the box.

The next doorway was only a few steps away on the left. The door to this room hung in splintered pieces from one badly twisted hinge.

Brennan held up the lantern, following the long gouge marks in the sturdy wood. "That's not a good sign."

Sampson walked cautiously into the room. Before him were two stoutly made cages with thick iron bars. As he moved closer, he could see the bars in one of the cages had been bent, looking as if they'd forcibly been pried apart – only something with immense strength could've accomplished that.

"Bloody hell," Brennan muttered as he looked at the cage. "We've walked into trouble, I think."

A glint from the floor caught Sampson's eye and he bent down to get a closer look.

"What do you see, Lumiere?" Verinder asked.

Sampson stood up and showed them the mangled remains of a silver bell. He felt someone looking over his shoulder and turned, but no one was there.

Brennan looked around as well. "By the looks of that bell, I think we have a very angry beast lurking about."

"Well, Nullus did say the means of controlling them was only temporary," Sampson said as he dropped the twisted silver and glanced around again. He was definitely on edge – all three of them were. "It makes sense they would destroy what controls them, given a chance."

"Do you think it's Mr. Montaine?" Verinder said softly.

"I don't know."

"What if he tries to kill us?" Brennan's eyes were constantly on the move. "I don't think anything short of a bullet can stop him."

"Brennan," Verinder said, a warning tone in his voice. "We'll figure it out."

Brennan nodded. "I do like the little sod. I hope we can –"

Verinder put his hand on Brennan's arm. "Did you hear that?"

"No. Our creature, you think?" Brennan shook his head.

"I don't know." Verinder whirled around.

Sampson had heard enough. "You're imagining thi –"

"You there!" a new voice demanded. "What are you doing here?"

Four men came into the room – two of them carrying revolvers and one a club.

Sampson pointed his pistol at them.

One of the men with a revolver shouted at him, "You there – put down your pistol!"

"I don't think so."

"Don't be a fool, Lumiere," Brennan hissed. "Think about Montaine."

A squat, round man pointed at Sampson. "It's the copper from the chemist's shop. I knew we should've killed him!"

Sampson scowled, recognizing the frogman.

The taller man, obviously the leader, crossed his arms and watched them closely. He had a cold, calculating air about him. But a man who would transform people into beasts only to serve as slaves would possess little compulsion for kindness.

"Perkins!" A younger man grabbed the leader's arm. "Look! The cage has been forced open, he's loose!"

"Compose yourself, Mr. Vess," Perkins said icily.

"But the bars! Look at the bars!"

Perkins tipped his head toward the cage. "Go and fetch the bell; you know that will calm him."

"You mean this?" Sampson toed the ruined bell.

Perkins looked at the bell and then slowly raised his eyes to glare coldly at Sampson. "What did you do?"

"Good God! He's killed us!" Vess shouted.

"Be quiet, you fool," the frogman said, giving Vess a shove so vicious that he fell to the ground.

Outside of the room they heard a deep growling. Mr. Vess covered his head with his arms in obvious terror but ceased his caterwauling.

"Mr. Jones, please retrieve the box and then escort our uninvited guests into the warehouse." Perkins resumed his unflappable stare at Sampson. "Or will you try and shoot one of us now?"

Sampson's revolver almost burned in his hand. He could shoot Perkins and he was relatively certain he would hit him. But Jones and the frogman both had revolvers and one of them might get lucky and kill him. What would happen to Gus, then? He hated to admit it, but Brennan was right. He lowered the pistol.

"Good," Perkins said. "Mr. Jones?"

Mr. Jones was a greasy-haired dandy who sneered triumphantly at Verinder when he took the box. There was an air of cruelty about him.

Frogman said, "But he's in the warehouse!"

"Exactly. We will use these three to lure him out. And after he's killed them, we'll call the other one to take care of him." Perkins motioned for Sampson to go. "After you. I'll even allow you to keep your revolver. You might manage to get off a shot if you're very lucky. Now go."

Sampson stepped out into the hall. Brennan followed silently with the lantern.

"Maybe we should keep one of them," Mr. Jones said. "If you're planning to kill the one in the warehouse, you could replace him with one of these."

"Not police. Too many questions." Perkins answered.

"But you're planning on killing them?" the frogman asked.

"I'm not. But I expect our friend in the warehouse will. Then we'll dump the bodies in Whitechapel."

They filed into a larger room – the storage area of the warehouse. It felt cavernous, but that was because Sampson could not see beyond the small pool of light from Brennan's lantern. Behind them, their captors – confident they were in control of the situation – lit their own lantern.

Sampson remembered the bent iron bars and the crushed bell, and suspected they had overestimated the situation. Did they not understand the creature still retained the ability to reason?

"Mr. Jones, open the box."

"But, Mr. Perkins, those aren't –"

"I believe any bell will get his attention right now. And once he's close enough, I'll dose him with a control powder." Perkins lifted out one of the packets and checked the marking on it. Seeming satisfied, he raised a bell and shook it.

The sound didn't match what Sampson had heard the night in the chemist's shop or during the encounter with the changed Gus. This sound was higher and thinner, but it reverberated around the room with quiet authority.

High above in the rafters, a low growl echoed the bell.

"Oh, my dear sirs. I do believe that was inadvisable," a new voice from above said.

Two pistols rose to the ceiling, panning for a target.

"Who's there?" Frogman said.

"Dr. Ulysses Nullus, at your service."

Sampson scanned what little he could observe of the warehouse. There was a catwalk that seemed to wrap around inside the warehouse. He was sure Nullus was hiding up there somewhere. But how had he got inside?

"Dr. Nullus," Perkins hissed.

"You know him?" Frogman said.

"Yes, I know him," Perkins said with a frown. For the first time during their encounter, Sampson thought Perkins had lost his composure. "This is none of your concern, Nullus. Why are you interfering?"

"Why, I'm delivering a message. It appears members of the true Hellfire Club have taken exception to your use of their name."

"What?"

"They don't appreciate those of such low birth abusing what they've created. They insist you find another name or face their wrath. However, I don't think they'll have to worry about it when this night is through."

"Nullus, you despicable –"

"I'm also here to observe, of course. I am a scientist first and foremost, you see, and you have made a mess of this experiment." Sampson couldn't see Nullus, but he recognized the smirk in his voice. "Whoever you acquired the potion recipe from left out some very important details. This will end poorly for you."

"What do you mean?"

"My friend, Dr. Wells, has informed me that prolonged use of the potion is very dangerous. There comes a point when they can no longer be restored to their natural form." Nullus clucked his tongue in mock disappointment. "When that happens, they can also no longer be controlled. Such a shame, isn't it? I don't believe you gave the poor growling creature in this room any respite."

There was blurring motion as the creature dropped straight down from the rafters and landed crouched in the midst of the four men. Raising his head, Sampson could see golden eyes sparkle threateningly as his lips pulled back in a twisted mockery of a smile.

The four stepped back, surprise and fear evident on all their faces – all except Perkins, that was. He opened the packet in his hand and showered the beast with powder.

The creature shook his head and blinked, staring at Perkins with pure hate.

"Good." Perkins relaxed. "I have a job for you. You will ki –"

In one swift motion, the beast leapt on Mr. Jones, knocking him back and halfway outside the circle of light. There was a blood-curdling scream that quickly changed into a tortured gurgle as sounds of falling liquid, not unlike rain outside a window, pattered softly onto the wooden floor. Sampson watched as Mr. Jones's feet pedaled wildly before falling limply to the floor. Frogman didn't even have time to aim his gun before the creature disappeared, howling in what sounded like victory.

Mr. Vess was turning circles and staring at the black ceiling, clearly frightened out of his senses. He dropped his club and it rolled away, stopping when it came in contact with Brennan's foot.

"Oh, dear. If you have a plan, you'd better hurry," Nullus taunted. "I think he's angry with you."

Perkins reached into his overcoat. He withdrew another bell and rang it. The echoing growl inside the warehouse became a roar.

Vess ran for the door. The creature materialized from the blackness and landed on him, knocking him to the ground. As it raised its claws for the killing blow, Frogman fired his revolver. His shot went wide and the sound did little to divert the beast.

Sampson took the opportunity to aim his own gun at Frogman and carefully squeezed the trigger. His shot was true, taking the man in head. Sampson watched impassively as Frogman fell to the ground, a gaping hole in his temple. Beside him, he was partially aware of Brennan as he picked up the discarded club.

The beast stood up from the bloodied and still-convulsing Vess and faced Perkins. The growling dropped to a throatier, more threatening sound.

"Ah, I believe your savior has arrived," Nullus said.

A second creature appeared in the doorway.

"Gus," Sampson whispered to his companions.

"You're certain?" Verinder asked.

"Yes."

"Kill everyone in this room," Perkins shouted at Gus, ringing his bell. He pointed at the first creature. "But start with hi –"

It was too late. Ignoring Gus, the creature jumped on Perkins and, in full view of Sampson, bit deep into Perkins's throat. A spray of blood fountained from his neck and when the creature sat up, mouth and teeth dripping with blood, he threw back his head howling in triumph.

Gus leapt on the bloodied creature, and together, they rolled off Perkins's corpse and to the very edge of the lantern's light.

Sampson raised his revolver again and cocked the trigger.

"Lumiere!" Brennan shouted. "Are you insane?"

"Nullus!" Sampson's aim was steady and true as he followed the snarling, fighting beasts with his pistol. "What can you tell me about this?"

"They are rather nasty, aren't they?"

"Can we save them?"

"I'm afraid we can't stop the first one; he's past the point of no return."

Sampson continued to track the bloodied, struggling pair. He was certain he could tell them apart, but they moved so fast, it was difficult to keep his revolver's sight on them. "What does that mean?"

"He'll never revert back to being a man. He will forever stay as he is now. At least, that's what Dr. Wells thinks, and since I'm fairly sure his potion is the one these unsavory men were using ..."

There was a cracking sound and Gus screamed out in a cry of agony. The first creature had broken Gus's arm and pinned him on his stomach. Bright, glowing eyes reflected the lantern light as it leaned over, its bloody mouth opened wide for the killing bite.

Sampson's shot took it between the eyes.

Gus was whimpering as he regained his feet. His right arm hung limply at his side, but he focused his glowing eyes on Sampson.

"Gus." He took a step forward, but Brennan grabbed his arm.

"Don't be a fool! He's still a beast, and he's still under control."

"The bell won't help us, I'm afraid," Verinder said. "It's been crushed in the fight."

The Gus-creature lunged forward and swung his good arm. Sampson leaned back but not quite far enough. Claws brushed his forehead before Brennan pushed Gus away with the club.

Gus disappeared into the darkness.

"Don't make me hurt you, Montaine," Brennan called after him.

"You aren't doing very well, Sampson," Nullus said. "The creature's last instructions were to kill everyone in this room. I believe that includes you."

Sampson rubbed the stinging blood out of his eyes and looked up. He couldn't see Nullus anywhere. "What about you, Nullus?"

"Ah, my dear boy, you of all people should know not to underestimate me. I came prepared."

Gus landed next to Brennan and paused. There was clearly turmoil in his glowing eyes.

When Nullus spoke again, he almost sounded bored. "Look at the pathetic thing. With so many targets, it doesn't know which to choose first. And it seems you're uncharacteristically hesitant to use your revolver. Why is that, I wonder?"

"Well, do you know how to stop this?" Sampson pointed at Gus. "We can save him, can't we?"

"It really is a rather dastardly thing to do to someone, isn't it?"

"Nullus!"

The Gus-creature had closed the distance to Brennan and leapt at him, claws from his good arm swinging. Brennan jumped back, but he wasn't quick enough to avoid a gouging scrape along his cheek. The blow was still strong enough to knock him off his feet and into a wall.

He crumpled to the ground, blood streaming from his face. Gus stepped closer, clearly intent on finishing Brennan off.

"Hmm, one down. They are frighteningly strong." Nullus sounded more interested now.

"Brennan!" Verinder grabbed the Gus-creature from behind and twisted his wounded arm.

Gus screamed.

Sampson could feel a rising panic. "Can you stop him, Nullus?"

Gus reached back with his good arm and gave Verinder a violent shove. Verinder was unable to keep himself upright and he stumbled, falling and sliding across the floor. Before he had come to a complete stop, Gus was on him, clawed fingers curling around his throat.

"Stop it, Gus!" Sampson raised his gun and fired at the ceiling.

Gus leapt away from Verinder and disappeared into the dark warehouse. Sampson couldn't tell if Verinder was alive or dead.

"Gus?" Nullus sounded very interested now. "Well, now, this is a surprising turn of events. Don't tell me that this is the –"

Gus appeared from the darkness, landing with a quiet thump in front of Sampson. He hesitated and then moved forward, one shaky step after another, a sorrowful growl accompanying his movements. He swayed in front of Sampson, fighting Perkins's last command.

"You blasted imbecile." He raised his gun and hit Gus on his head.

The blow wasn't quite hard enough, and although Gus was dazed, he was still nimble enough to knock Sampson to the ground.

"Oh, bloody hell," Sampson said as he looked up at a confused Gus, knowing he was beaten. And as he felt fingers close around his throat, he hoped the stupid sod didn't blame himself for the rest of his life.

"Well, Sampson." Nullus's voice seemed very close, but Sampson could not see him. "Your Gus gets the pleasure of being my test subject. Now, don't move," Nullus said the last with a laugh.

Sampson saw sparkling lights all around them. He assumed it was an effect brought on by lack of oxygen, but as Gus's fingers relaxed and he gulped in air, the mysterious glimmering continued. Gus collapsed on top of him.

"I consider this a gift, Sampson." Nullus's voice was soft, almost gentle. "You've finally shown me a weakness. Can it be that you've traded your love for laudanum and absinthe for relations with a poor, unfortunate nephew of a chemist?"

"Save him," Sampson managed to whisper.

"Extraordinary! I return the favor and give you back your Gus. I expect I will not need to remind you of this in the future when I need a favor."

"Fine." Sampson's eyelids were becoming very heavy and he was drifting away.

He felt a tugging. "But I will take your coat, if you don't mind. Being invisible requires nudity, and I'm terribly cold. I'm afraid I miscalculated there. Oh, good, you have cigarettes, too."

Before Sampson fell into a dreamless sleep, he was sure he saw his coat moving about on its own, a lit cigarette hovering above it.


	15. The Conclusion

Chapter 15  
 _The Conclusion_

 

Sampson sat on Godfrey's luxurious couch, sipping port as he finished his story.

"Remarkable!" Godfrey wiped sweat from his brow. "That is the most extraordinary story. And how is August's arm?"

"It will be a while before it's fully functional again, but I believe it's the reason we survived. If the creature hadn't broken Gus's arm, we wouldn't have been so lucky."

"I've heard Verinder and Brennan are both well on their way to recovery." Godfrey set down his empty glass and said, "And Nathaniel Ford was the unfortunate creature?"

"Yes. Nullus assured me he was beyond saving, but ..."

Godfrey's smile was guarded. "Ah, you are quite correct to mistrust anything Nullus says, but in this case, it does sound unlikely that young Nathaniel could've been saved."

"Yes." Sampson's headaches had finally subsided. He was certain the cause had been from the sleeping powder – or whatever it was – that Nullus had sprinkled on him. They were all on the mend, it seemed.

"And how is August taking the death of his uncle and cousin?"

"Hard. Of course, the imbecile blames himself, but how can he? It was all that fool Nathaniel's doing."

"What happens with August now?"

"Mr. Ford left everything to him in the event of Nathaniel's death or disappearance, but I'm not sure he wants to continue as a chemist." Sampson exhaled. "We'll have to wait and see, I think."

"But you're settling into his home?"

"For the moment." Sampson shrugged. "He has the room, and he says he'll be lonely in that big house."

"I'm sure." Godfrey smiled. "That's very kind of you, Sampson."

"It's just until he decides what he wants to do with the shop."

"Of course." Godfrey lit his pipe.

Sampson stood up. "Well, I believe I'll be heading back now."

"I've already sent for the carriage. I know you don't like to be away at night." Godfrey also stood and clapped Sampson on his back. "I'm glad you're staying with August, lad. He's a good match for you. I didn't think you'd ever care for anyone or anything after your father died. I'm happy to be wrong."

Sampson opened his mouth.

"No arguments, please. And I'll see you and Gus on Sunday for dinner."

Sampson didn't answer.

Half an hour later, he stepped out of the carriage and into the chemist's shop. Gus was behind the counter, his arm in an elaborate sling. He was still a little pale from his ordeal, but when he looked up from the papers and saw Sampson, his smile was bright and inviting.

"Welcome home."

And for the first time in many years, Sampson did feel as if he were home.

 

End


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